B. J. Winters

Hale Marcum is the witness to a horrific crime - trouble is he was sleeping at the time.

Automatic writing is a skill that Hale would prefer to do without.  Living alone in Placerville, California, he defines himself as an author, not a psycic.  Yet, when strange text appears at his bedside, and neatly typed within the pages of his manuscript he cannot deny that he could prevent a murder.

Together with his editor, Nadiya Kingsley, he tracks a killer and finds a body buried in a glass coffin. The plot takes a dangerous turn when Nadiya disappears and Hale is stalked in his own home.

Can Hale find Nadiya before her abductor executes her plan?  Or before the police decide that he is the one they want for the crime?

Premise

The story moves forward through Hale's ability at Automatic Writing, scribbles on paper done while asleep and attributed to communication with someone else or a spirit. In theory, the writer's hand forms the message, but the person is unaware of what will be written. It is sometimes done in a trance state. At other times, the writer is aware of his surroundings but not of the actions of his writing hand.

During the late 19th century, inspiration for automatic writing was generally attributed to external or supernatural force, and Charles Dickens claimed to have the skill.  More recent theories of personality postulate unconscious as well as conscious motivation.

Personal Note

In November 2008 this was nominated in for Best Twists and Turns at Time is Running Out Awards - (TIRO) a site dedicated to fiction press content.  This later won "Best Non-Romance" at the SKOW awards site (March 2009). 

Name: Hale Marcum

Gender: Male
Age: 28
Zodiac Sign: Pisces
Nationality: American
Current Residence: Placerville, CA
Height: 5' 10"
Weight: 170
Body type: Average
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue

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Personality: Reserved. Dry sense of humor.

Quote: "Enlighten me."

Biography/Family: One sister, Bailey

Education: Chicago

Attire: Jeans, t-shirt. Can dress to look more professional (sweater/sportscoat) but he'll change as soon as you're not looking

Strengths/Likes: Solitude. Writing.

Weaknesses/Dislikes: Doesn't sleep much

Bad habits: Appears disorganized.

Speech: Educated - but deliberate choice to work at 10th grade level so as not to appear too smart

Theme song: Beautiful Disaster - Kelly Clarkson

Name: Nadiya Kinsley

Gender: Female
Age: 33
Zodiac Sign: Sagitarius
Nationality: American
Current Residence: San Francisco, California
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 140lbs
Body type:
Hair: Long, wavy, chestnut.
Eyes: Almond shaped, green.

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Personality: A "go getter"

Quote: "Do as you say, and say what you mean"

Biography/Family: Mother (62), from India; now lives in Seattle, WA. Father (deceased), Irish.

Education: Washington

Attire: Casual, colorful, and clean cut. Business clothes always have a feminine touch. Nadiya favors reds, golds, oranges, and warm tones to compliment her olive skin. Dresses/skirts for weekend and night outings in pastels or lively blues and greens.

Strengths/Likes: Strong professional ethics

Weaknesses/Dislikes: Can't stand disorganization

Bad habits: Early riser

Speech: Slight foreign accent.

Theme Song: I Believe in You - Amanda Marshall

Name: Detective Elizabeth Olsen

Gender: Female
Age: 27
Zodiac Sign: Cancer
Nationality: American
Current Residence: Placerville, California
Height: 5' 7"
Weight: 130lbs
Body type: Athletic
Hair: Long, redhead.
Eyes: Brown

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Personality: Tenacious, spirited

Quote: "I'll get back to you on that"

Biography/Family: Parents still living and younger sister

Education: U.C. Davis

Attire: Police Uniform.  Or, casual - white shirt/jeans

Strengths/Likes: Honest and trustworthy

Weaknesses/Dislikes: People offering an opinion when none was asked for.

Bad habits: Sees things as black and white. 

Theme song: Living on the Edge - Aerosmith

Name: The Bad Guy (as Hale sees him)

Gender: Male
Age: 26
Zodiac Sign: Gemini
Nationality: American

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 Settings

 Hale's House from the back/orchard

Kitchen/Livingroom

Guest/Nadiya's Room

 Pasedena Library

 Abandoned Antique Warehouse

 Westwood Hills Cemetary

CHAPTER 1 – APRIL FOOLS DAY

April 1st
4:02 am

I lie in bed, listening to the sounds of my own ragged breathing. Even with my eyes open, the nightmare remains vivid in my mind. I touch my bare arms, testing that my own body is still whole and here, not held at the whim of some madman, and I realize that I’m holding a pen in my hand. A pad of paper is resting on top of the quilt. Reaching out, I fumble for the lamp on the bedside table. Light pierces the dark and everything seems normal.

Then I look at the paper. I’ve been writing in my sleep again.

Being a mystery writer makes this all the more ironic, as though I can’t quite stop my creative mind from perking even when I’m asleep. Unfortunately, it’s not my mind that was controlling my hand. I force myself to study the handwriting—the swoop of the j and the slanted downward cross of the t are unfamiliar. I don’t need to read the words. In my dream I saw the violence that’s transcribed, felt every impulse, even smelled the blood.

Time in these visions isn’t always linear; I may only have documented a foretelling, someone’s premeditative thoughts of murder, but I can never be sure. That makes it all the worse. Can I prevent it? Or is it simply my job to stop it from happening to someone else and avenge the dead? Those who kill once tend to do so again.

At least the ones who pay me a visit do.

This is the second night in a row I’ve woken at this hour. Frustrated, I set aside the pad of paper. Slipping out of bed, I turn on every light I can find, anxious to disperse the shadows; I still feel the presence that invaded my dreams, as if he’s watching me. It defies all logic. Still I kneel and look under the bed. A dark form shifts and moves and I gasp, but it’s just my neighbor’s cat, staring at me with unblinking gold eyes. It gives a hiss and darts out from under the bed, running toward the door.

I don’t know how it got in here. Frowning, I follow it as it runs down the stairs, where it finds an open kitchen window and jumps out on to the porch. I close the window behind it with more force than necessary. Fluffy disappears into my almond orchard and I make a mental note to be sure that this particular window remains shut. My hand rests on the lock for a long time. The cool metal is oddly comforting, as though the little latch holds the power to protect me.

A small part of me wants to run after the cat—just run through the orchard and forget all the churning thoughts in my head. But instead, a sense of duty lures me into my office. I’m behind on my deadline to deliver my latest book and my editor isn’t pleased. The computer is on; it always is. I pull up a chair and begin the task of writing.

It should be simple to finish the manuscript. If I need to be writing anything, it’s this, not some 4 am chicken scratches on a legal pad. I’ve used the same characters before, I understand their habits, and I know who the villain is. But I find myself adding more and more, swirling around a possible ending without settling on anything.

Without conscious thought, the scene from my nightmare appears on the page.

The door to the auditorium floated open, awaiting his honored entrance. It screamed in its own way, a protest to anyone present that it needed oil and attention. He blended with the gloom of the dimly lit stage, a player without an audience.

“Who’s there?” a woman’s soft voice called.

He could hear the booted footfalls of his victim approaching, his fingers clenching around the baseball bat he held. He salivated, knowing that her life would soon be his to hold, emerging from the shadow of the stage curtain only once she walked past him. Behind her now, towering over her. It would be easy to reach out and grab her arms, to pluck them like the wings of a butterfly.

SLAM!

So simple. One swing of the bat in his hands wasn’t enough; he had to have another, like a craving unsatisfied. Then a third blow, unplanned. The swish of air, the “plunk” of the bat was the only accompaniment to his victim’s short scream. She would protest no more; he’d broken her jaw.

Emotion assaulted him in waves, along with a smell he knew and loved.

She hit the ground, rolling away from him, consumed by gravity.

There was blood on his palms and he didn’t know how it had gotten there. It trickled around the rim of the bat and slithered onto his thumb. He licked the digit. His tongue rolled over his flesh. He was an animal, possessed of speed and strength, intuition and intelligence beyond any human hopes.

He rolled his prey inside the throw rug she’d fallen on, taking only a moment to check for the pulse that he knew would still flutter within her wrist. Standing again, he lifted the rug with its bulky cargo. The limp form hung over his shoulder like a sash of honor.

“Time to go . . .”

It’s easy to separate yourself from reality when you’re a writer. Looking at the text, I feel a catharsis, as though the scene, once documented, can’t hurt me. In fiction, words are the armor to my soul. But I know it’s not fiction. What makes a man use a baseball bat against a defenseless woman? And why am I seeing this crime in particular?

I don’t know who the victim is. There is something about the scene that’s familiar, but I can’t see her face. Searching for more information, I re-read the text and notice, for the first time, that I didn’t name the victim. The scene doesn’t belong in the story. It’s a figment of another part of my mind – rather than my imagination. The delete key rests underneath my finger. I press it and watch the scene disappear.

A thousand words later, it’s back of its own accord.