Today we have a sneak peek from author John A. Karr’s paranormal suspense novel, Ghostly Summons.
Lars Kelsen doesn’t believe in psychic phenomenon. To him, visions of murder victims are a form of mental illness. Once they begin, options are limited; he can try to ignore them or deal with them by exposing a killer. Only the latter provides any semblance of peace. Temporarily, anyway. Five years into his new life as a programmer, Kelsen—ex-crime beat reporter with a penance he can never fully satisfy—sees a victim.
In person. Upright. Staring.
So begins Kelsen’s return to investigative reporting—complete with attempts on his life, fights, deception, and use of technology such as GPS and computer hacking. And possibly finding a new love interest.
Ghostly Summons is available through Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon UK.
Here is an excerpt from Ghostly Summons…
Things had escalated with his Visitors to the red zone, then pushed him over the edge. Break point.
They don’t call them Sanitariums or Loony Bins or Cuckoo’s Nests anymore. You don’t have to worry about being there a long time either, unless you’re criminally insane, and even then you’d be a rare case. Kelsen’s insurance through the newspaper actually paid for three full days of insanity. Seventy-two hours in the Shady Glen Rehabilitation Center—forced incarceration despite the manicured lawns, flowering gardens, and pond with fountain—horrified Kelsen more than the silent demands of the murder victims, and prompted a life-changing move.
For the divorce he asked only for thirty thousand to help him get on his feet, and relinquished his stake in the house to Jill. He quit the Tribune and the city of Charlotte and moved to a decrepit house in North Carolina’s Outer Banks. His dad and brothers helped him fix it up, or rather, thanks to his lack of skill at home repair, he served as gopher and circular saw man while they performed the skilled carpentry. He’d been part of the OBX ever since.
Something about being surrounded by water—the eternal Atlantic or broad expanse of Roanoke Sounds or twisting creeks of the intracoastal—soothed the part of him that psychiatry and meds could not. He worked landscaping jobs while taking community college and online courses in programming. He threw himself at his new studies like a desert wanderer toward a distant oasis. Got a job in the computer lab, then was offered contract positions in the area before getting his degree. Cognizant of the power of details, he excelled in his second profession. Instead of searching for clues he mined data. Instead of revealing the likely perpetrator, he mined data to solve business problems. Factual, safe, dull. No one got shot. Stabbed. Strangled. Beat to death. Run over. Set on fire. Drowned in a bathtub. Poisoned.
Actually, some patients did suffer such ill-gotten fates and were brought to the Outer Banks Hospital, where he worked part-time. He wasn’t certain, but maybe since he didn’t actively seek out the stories behind the crimes, his mind didn’t seek out and raise any new images. And the old ones faded, thank God.
Hooper shook the water off like only furred animals can do. Trotted up and sat beside his owner. Lars rested a hand on Hooper’s back, scarcely noticing the wet and relative coolness of the dog’s fur.
Lars mentally repeated his old mantra: he was not psychic. Like Harry Houdini, he did not believe in psychics or ghosts. The images had been the product of a cracked mind, mortared together once again with distance, a change in lifestyle, and regular doses of diversion in the form of booze and babes.
Question was, after almost five years, why had that familiar sense of foreboding snaked back into his psyche?
