The Grave Artist
Author: Paula Lynn Johnson
Genre: YA/Paranormal
Release Date: March 14, 2012
Blurb:
16-year-old Clare can't stop drawing the bizarre, winged skulls she
calls "Sammies". Her psychiatrist assumes the compulsive drawings are
just expressions of Clare's grief over her father abandoning her. But
then Clare discovers that her Sammies are exact matches for the Death's
Head on the grave of Samantha Forsythe, a teen who reportedly fell to
her death over two centuries ago. Before long, Clare's drawings morph
into cryptic writings that urge her to uncover the truth behind
Samantha's death. Together with Neil -- the friend she might be falling
for -- Clare scours the local history for clues. She finds that,
although Samantha was engaged to a wealthy landowner, there were
whispered rumors of her involvement with a younger, biracial man. Soon,
Clare is haunted by disturbing dream images -- a mysterious eye, a
broken chain -- that point to someone Samantha called her "Dearest". But
who is Dearest? And why does Samantha need Clare to find him so badly?
Isolated and carrying hidden scars of her own, Clare fears her
obsession with Samantha will threaten her sanity and safety. But it
seems she has no choice in the matter . . . The Grave Artist is a
compelling paranormal murder mystery and a poignant story about loss and
what it means thrive in a less-than-perfect reality.
The sale ends, and Gollum and I grab some late fast food. Afterwards,
I head back home to a dark house. Lauren and Mom are asleep. I climb
the stairs and go straight to bed, too tired to wash up. I’m out almost
as soon as I hit the pillow.
And then, the strangest of dreams.
Flashes of naked limbs and scattered leaves. A world painted brown and gray.
It’s a forest in winter, and I’m running through it.
Thick
trees block my path. Spiny branches tear at my clothes. I’m crying –
choking sobs that hardly let me catch my breath. But still, I run, my
breath frosting the air.
I round a bend and stumble against a
mound of moss-covered rocks. They’re stacked like a totem – a stone god
with a blank face. I push against them, propelling myself forward.
I’m gasping, now. Something thorny strafes my ankle. A shrieking bird flies above.
And then I break through the woods, cross a narrow pathway, and stop short.
My
toes curl tight over the edge of a precipice. I rear forward, then
back, regaining my balance. A swooping in my stomach as I register the
void below, a dark cavity. My pulse beats in my ears, behind my eyes.
Hoof beats. At first, I can’t distinguish them from my pounding heart. But then they grow louder, more deliberate.
I turn and look. A rider approaches from the woods, on horseback. He
has no face, just a vague smear of features. But I can make out the
broad span of his shoulders, the width of his hands clutching the
reigns. I can sense his strength.
Panic floods me.
The rider draws closer and dismounts. For a horrible moment, he stands frozen. Then he paces towards me, slow and menacing.
Terrified,
I shuffle backwards, towards the edge. My lungs slow, filtering just
enough air for me to remain conscious. Not nearly enough to scream.
The
rider is upon me now. The wind catches his cloak and unfurls it behind
him in a deadly fantail. I cower down, spinal cord humming, sensing
the drop. Above me, he’s become all darkness – a gathering storm cloud.
A terrible crack, like a bone snapping in two. Then staggering pain in my head.
I’m hurtling through the void, spinning and spinning . . .
And then I’m awake, clawing at my throat with my fingernails.
It
only lasts a few seconds, until I realize who and where I am. But when
my hands calm, I feel something warm clotting on my skin. Dazed, I go to
the bathroom and find angry scratches swelling around my neck, circling
it like a choker. With my finger, I wipe a bead of blood from my
throat and stare at it, horrified.
Oh, my God, it wasn’t just a
random dream. The popping sound my skull made as it fractured. That
terrible, endless fall. I know who I was, where I was. And how it felt
to die.
My body goes limp with fear. I stumble forward and
clutch the sink for balance. And then the urge floods me, washing away
all thoughts except one.
Draw, O coward.
I clean the one
scratch, the bloody one, wincing at the soap’s sting. Then I return to
my room. In the dark, my neck throbs and gives off heat. I turn on my
desk lamp and sit, rummaging for a pencil and sheet of paper. Then
mechanically, I sketch an almond shape, not much bigger than my thumb. I
shade in a dark center, flecked with light, with thick strokes around
the rim. It’s only as I’m adding a series of fine lines to the outer
edge that I realize what I’ve drawn.
It’s an eye. And the way it seems to stare right through me scares the living hell out of me.
Suddenly,
all energy drains from me. I’ve never felt heavier, more leaden. I
turn the sketch face-down, then tumble into bed, exhausted.
The
next morning, I blink awake. Groggily, I take in the Kandinsky poster
I’ve pinned to the far wall of my room, the abstract pattern on my
comforter. It’s like there’s a wet towel jammed inside my skull. As I
lift my head from my pillow, I feel an ache in the crease of my neck. I
touch my fingertips to the spot and trace a rough line of torn skin.
Now I remember.
I force myself out of bed. My gut cinches up
when I see the sheet of paper lying flat on my desk top. My hand
trembling, I pick it up by the corner and flip it over.
The eye
freezes me. Its gaze is still penetrating, unnerving. But plaintive,
too, like it’s asking for help. Asking me for help.
I stand
there, stupefied, almost levitating with panic. Get a grip, Clare.
Somehow you’ve got to deal with this. Then I reach across my desk for
my cell and dial Gollum.
It’s four rings before he picks up.
“Yeah?” he says, sleepily. I glance down at my cell for the time:
great, I woke the guy before eight.
“Gollum, it’s me. Can you meet me at the diner this morning?”
A pause. “I think so,” he says, more awake now. “Why? What’s up?”
“I – I made another drawing last night, and I don’t know what to do. I think you should see it in person.”
“So something’s messing with you again” he says, more a statement than a question.
“Not just something,” I say. “Samantha.”
About the Author:
Paula
Lynn Johnson loves a good ghost story. She's a former English major and
attorney living in central New Jersey with her husband, kids, cat, dog,
and killer rabbit. She adores them all, even the killer rabbit. Paula
also loves a good laugh! You can read her short, humorous pieces on
sites like The Big Jewel and Errant Parent, or on her blog, Twaddle Like
a Duck. When she's not writing, Paula sells antiques and art out of
Lambertville, NJ. You can visit her online at Tiny's Lambertville.
Connect with Paula:
Beautiful necklace and the book sounds amazing definitely going on my tbr list
ReplyDeleteThanks for the giveaway!
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ReplyDelete-JennyC
Thanks all for taking a look! And the necklace really is pretty - I have one myself!
ReplyDeleteOhhh I like ;) Looks good!Thanks.
ReplyDeleteThis looks like a great read! Thanks for the giveaway!
ReplyDeleteThe necklace looks amazing. Thank you for the giveaway.
ReplyDeleteSounds interesting and the cover creeps me out but I love it. Thanks or sharing.
ReplyDelete