Tag Archives: Anne H Petzer. Zvonek 08 Feline Intelligence

The Hollows….

28 Jan

A GSP release from Author of the Week: Ben Larken.

The Hollows by Ben Larken

Former detective David Alders is forced to downsize to an apartment after a decade searching for his missing wife. To avoid staggering debt, he and his daughter Melanie move into the Whispering Hollows, a complex full of older residents, like the charmingly befuddled Eldon or the redneck property manager Charlie. 

On the first night Melanie is terrorized when a burnt corpse crawls into bed with her. And events only get stranger as David finds himself reliving the same day twice! Suddenly, time travel is an all-too-real tool at his disposal, one he can use to finally return to the love of his life. 

But time travel comes with rules. Deadly consequences await anyone bold enough to break them. As David wades cautiously into the past, he learns the awful truth of his existence:

He didn’t choose The Hollows. The Hollows chose him…


 Elise’s Journal: December 28, 1993

I tried to get my wedding ring back today. I pawned it two weeks ago so we could buy some decent presents for Melanie. David doesn’t know. He started at the police academy last month and he’s barely bringing home enough to pay the utilities. He probably thinks I borrowed the money from my brother, although he doesn’t realize that the idea makes me as livid as it makes him. But I wanted Mel to have some good presents. I know she’s only three months old. I don’t care. This was her first Christmas and our first Christmas as a complete family. I wanted it to be special.

The pawn shop guy couldn’t find my ring. He spent an hour searching the jewelry shelves, the merchandise storage bins, the owner’s desk, everywhere. I don’t know if he did it for show or if he saw a young woman with a baby in her arms and tears streaming down her face and felt compelled to keep going. His compassion hit its expiration after sixty minutes. He stopped at the counter, shrugged, and said something to the effect of, That’s that.

Excuse me? As far as I was concerned THAT most definitely was not THAT.

Look, lady, he said. You gave us the ring. We gave you money. I know you didn’t mean it to be permanent, but sometimes you have to take the trade as it stands.

The jackass.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at home, crying my eyes out, wondering if David would forgive me. Melanie was the one who pulled me back. I watched her in her crib, staring quietly up at her new Beauty & the Beast mobile. She focused on each individual character as it circled past—the princess, the candle, the Beast, the clock. Her wide eyes flickered in amazement for all of them. That’s when I realized the pawn shop guy was right, even if he would forever be known as Mr. Jackass. Our first Christmas as a family had been perfect. I would remember it always. At the end of the day, the wedding band was just something I wore. The trade was worth the memory.

Tomorrow I’ll tell David the ring fell down the bathtub drain.

                                                       THE CLOCK STRIKES


                                                          The Buckner Farm
                                                              May 13, 1949

For Tess Buckner the only worthwhile activity on that blustery Texas afternoon was standing between two clotheslines in the backyard and letting the sheets billow against her. White cotton sheets lifted on the breeze, tickled her nose, and played dead again. She held out her arms, turning her little body into a T. The sheets rose to the occasion, taking her hands in loose but enthusiastic handshakes. Tess giggled.

Then the breeze quieted and so did she. Momma’s head bobbed over the clothesline on the right, her squinty gaze catching Tess at once.

“I thought my pischouette came out here to help her mother,” she said in that tone, sounding both amused and annoyed.

“I’m only so big,” Tess explained. “These clotheslines are too high for me.”

“Which means I should give you a chore more suited to your size.”

“But Maw-aaah,” Tess said. “I’m helping. I’m looking out for dropped drawers.”

Mare Buckner smiled. “I assure you, my drawers are not in any danger of dropping.”

Tess took a moment to catch her mother’s meaning. “I mean from the line, silly.” She laughed. The sheets thought it funny too. They billowed up in their own silent fits of hilarity.

“Tell me a story,” Tess said. She couldn’t see Momma beyond the sheets, but she didn’t have to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. Tess waited and asked again. “Tell me a story…pleeease?”

“You’ve heard all my stories,” Mare replied, but Tess didn’t believe her. There are endless quantities of certain things. The beach will always have enough sand. The sky will always have enough rain. And Momma will always have a story squirreled away in the corner of memory taken up by childhood.

Mare Buckner grew up in Nawlins. At least that’s the way she pronounces it. Papa insists it’s pronounced New Orleans. It’s only a teensy bit away from Texas, where they live. Tess once put her fingers on the United States map at school, one on New Orleans and one on Fort Worth, and the gap was barely the size of a dime. Part of her longed to see Momma’s Nawlins, but Papa sounded like the distance was too far to be troubled with.

Tess rounded the sheets as Mare pulled one of Papa’s shirts from the basket. Tess tugged on the shirt. “A story, Momma. Story, story, story…”

“Tess Elizabeth Buckner,” Mare said, snapping the shirt back. “You’re about to hear the story of the girl who spent all day pulling weeds as punishment for back-sass.”

“But you haven’t told me one in weeks,” Tess pleaded. Momma didn’t know that Tess repeated the stories at school. She had grown popular retelling them. A small circle of third graders on the playground gawked at her in awed silence as she spun tales of Southern jinxes and Vodun curses. Even big-shot Arnie Fetters occasionally shuddered or gasped in surprise. If the stories ever got back to the teachers she’d be in for an earful from her mother. But for the moment Tess was willing to take that chance.

Besides, Tess loved the way Momma sounded as she told them. That accent she tried hard to simmer down most times came bounding back to life during a story. Tess always thought she was glimpsing Momma in her truest, most beautiful form.

“I’ve got it,” Tess said, holding a finger up like her teacher did when making a point. “If you tell me a story I’ll pull weeds in the flowerbed for a full hour.” She rocked on her feet as her mother looked at her. “You have to admit, that’s a pretty swell deal.”

Mare watched her. From the kitchen window ledge the radio switched songs. I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover gave way to the dreamy Bing Crosby crooning Now Is the Hour. Tess listened, swooning in the breeze, as Bing melodiously said goodbye to a dear loved one sailing away.

“The weeds can wait another day,” Mare decided. “But that doesn’t mean you’re getting a story for free.”

Tess grabbed her mother’s dress. “I’ll do anything.”

Mare grabbed another piece of clothing from the basket. Tess cracked a smile when she saw it was Papa’s drawers. “Fetch that pail off the back porch,” Mare instructed. “If you can go down to the river and make it back with a pail-full of water I’ll tell you a story.”

“That’s it?” Tess bounced happily. Their well pump had gone out yesterday evening, giving Papa a chance to use many of the words Mrs. Gershon said were Paddle Words. “I can do that.”

Mare propped her hands on her hips. “Then why are you dancing around here?”

Tess didn’t need further motivation. She darted for the porch, grabbing the pail by the handle without slowing. Rounding their two-story farmhouse she nearly banged the pail into Papa’s candy apple red Studebaker. She pulled back in time, thankful she didn’t scratch the paint. That wouldn’t have been pretty, for the paintjob or her behind.

She slowed to skip across the flat stones surrounding the circle drive, being careful not to get caught on the rosebushes near the porch. Beyond that was the rusty old barn. Tess hurried past it, hearing Papa’s disgruntled tones echo through the loft window. He was somewhere in there, grumbling to himself and banging tools and getting himself all in a dither. Papa spent whole days dithering in the barn and on those days Tess knew to steer clear. When a matter couldn’t wait it was Momma who ventured into the barn, and she never came out looking happy about it.

Past the barn the forest began. It looked dense and forbidding to a first-timer, which Tess was proud to say she wasn’t. The forest wasn’t as vast as it first appeared. It covered three acres at most and once inside, the trails were easy to follow. Within minutes you emerged from the other side, staring at the Trinity River. But for a few precious moments the woods came to life in that same mystical way Nawlins did in mother’s stories. The silence seemed watchful, as if something unseen waited in breathless anticipation.

Tess was through the first acre when she heard the sound. It was low and barely audible. She cocked her head and stopped, peering up at the canopy of branches and the shards of sunlight that pushed through the leaves like hungry fingers. Her body went rigid as the sound drifted over the breeze again.

A groan. She heard a low, muted, raspy groan.

It was a ragged, withering voice that could have been male or female. She twisted slowly, finding it difficult to move. The sound didn’t come from any one direction. But it was close. The more she listened the closer it felt. She stared at the forest floor, seeing pine needles dappled in sunlight. The shadows were more noticeable.

The groan lifted, becoming a reedy warble. Someone had to be hurt, maybe from tripping over a branch or getting bit by a snake—or worse. Tess wanted to call out. Her lips parted but her voice didn’t follow. Her mouth had gone dry as dirt. The groan spiked again, passing through her like an electric shock. Tess coughed.

“Are…are you okay?” Had she said it out loud? If it made it past her lips it came out as a whisper. Tess tried again, pushing the words out one at a time. “Hello? Who are you? Where are you?”

The groan broke into a series of dry coughs, sounding like the distant gunfire she heard during hunting season. A thump followed the coughs and then silence. Tess waited, realizing the abrupt end to the noise was scarier than the noise itself. The fear put her in motion. “Hello?” she called louder. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”

No answer. She moved deeper into the forest, leaving the path. Bushes snagged at the blue summer dress Momma had bought last week. She couldn’t stop to disentangle herself from every little branch. Faces of her schoolmates floated in her mind as she imagined each one lying with a broken leg and grasping at the air for help. Tess climbed a small rise and tried again.

“Please call out again,” she cried as she stepped carefully over a trunk and into a small grove of trees. A group of crows took flight, shooting upward from every side. Tess staggered to avoid them. Her foot landed on something that wasn’t ground. Up above a crow cawed in annoyance. She had already forgotten the crows. Her focus was on the large wooden door she stood upon.

The wood was nearly green from years of overgrowth. The metal clasps and the old padlock on the handle were so rusted they looked bloodstained. It was a cellar door or more likely a storm shelter. Spring storms in these parts would justify having one, but why so far from the farmhouse and so well hidden? The surrounding trees were like guardians protecting the door from the outside world.

The groan came again. Tess screamed and leapt back, dropping her water pail. The sound came from directly beneath her. She knelt on the ground and knocked on the door in a panic, not wasting time thinking. Someone was down there, someone who needed her. A cold knot tightened in her stomach.

“Who are you?” she cried, banging the door with her small fist. “Are you hurt?”

The groan lowered to a whimpering. It sobbed, and Tess brought her ear close to the wood, taking in every sniffle. It whispered only one word.


Tess scrambled to her feet and grabbed the first heavy thing she saw, a fallen branch not two feet from the door. Tess hefted it as best she could, shifting it onto her shoulder, and took a stance over the blood red lock. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “I’m getting you out of there.”

With a squeaky grunt she swung the branch and got it on the first try. The branch hit the heart-shaped padlock, and the metal shattered like an ancient vase. She probably could have kicked it with her shoe and gotten the same result.

She lugged the branch aside and grabbed the door handle, hoping it wasn’t as breakable as the lock. “I’m opening the door,” she announced to whoever was down there. If it was a small child she didn’t want to scare him or her. She squatted and braced herself—and then pulled.

It was hard, but not as hard as she expected. The door didn’t shift from its resting place at first. The roots and weeds at its borders played tug-of-war with her. Tess thought of the cowering child waiting inside and put her back into it. Weeds ripped. Roots cracked. The door swung until gravity helped her, allowing her to let the door fall against a tree. Tess found herself at the top of a staircase, staring down into blackness.

The overbearing stench of mildew forced her to take a step back. Sour air wafted over her, the underground lair exhaling after years of holding its breath. She wondered how someone could actually be waiting down there. She kept looking in the oily darkness, hoping for a sign of movement.

“Can you walk? …Hello?”

No movement. No sound. Had she scared the child? The daylight could be too bright for someone who spent a long time in darkness. She squatted again and held out her hand, like someone befriending an uneasy dog.

“It’s okay. You can come out. I wanna help.”

She waited but no response came. Rising from the squat, she eyed the rotten-looking stairs warily. Only the first four were visible in the light, and there was no way to know how many followed or if they were intact. And yet the toe of her shoe drifted closer to the first one. Her shoe touched the wood and a soft creak echoed in the darkness. She let her other foot follow until she was completely on the step. It sagged a little, but it didn’t break. She was sure of it. She—

Hands closed on her shoulders.

Tess gasped as she was pulled backward. The hands spun her around until she was staring into Momma’s taut face. “Tessie. Tu dèlires? I send you for water and you decide to go exploring instead? Well, I think I have several other chores that need your immediate attention.”

“But Momma!” she erupted. She twisted in her mother’s grip, pointing into the black hole. “There’s someone down there! I heard em crying. I think the person’s hurtin’.”

Mare had started pulling her the other way, but stopped to look back. She eyed Tess first and then the door. It was obvious she had never seen it before either. She turned her gaze to her daughter. “Wait. What?”

“The child’s down there, I promise.” She stared up at Momma, letting the tears come. “I know he ain’t making noise now, but he’s down there. He is. I wouldn’t make this up. Not this.” She tugged on her mother’s dress, praying Mare wouldn’t think she let her imagination get the best of her. Adults had a way of ignoring the important stuff.

Mare’s gaze remained steady. “All right,” she finally said. “Let me take a look.”

Tess nodded gratefully and they turned to the waiting darkness. Mare stepped past her, keeping one hand firmly on Tess’s shoulder to let her know she wasn’t to follow. Momma went to the doorway and stopped at the edge.

“Who’s down there?” she demanded. “Tell me your name and how you found your way onto our land. There’ll be no hiding and seeking.”

Mare waited with hands on hips. Now that she put it in those words Tess wondered if someone had toyed with her for sport. If that was the case there would be a fight on the school playground tomorrow. And if it was Arnie Fetters he could expect to go away from it with a bloody nose.

No answer came. Momma waited a whole minute before turning to look at Tess.

“I heard someone.” Tess looked at the hole in the ground, hoping in vain to see a child crawling off of the stairs.

“I know you did, Tessie, but whoever’s down there isn’t going to fess up to it. We’ll have to go back to the house and ring the police. Allons.”

With a gentle touch Momma took her by the shoulder and turned her around. Tess didn’t need convincing. She was happy to turn her back on the strangely-placed storm shelter. And she was happy Momma was with her too. To think she had almost stepped down into that blackness alone.

“Don’t worry,” Mare said as she squeezed her. “I’ll still tell you a stor—”

Momma’s hand jerked away as she let out a guttural cry. Tess wheeled around to see her mother on her stomach, writhing in the dirt as she flew backward. Her dress bunched around her waist as some unseen thing yanked on her feet. Her fingers clawed the ground, raking at loose leaves and making trails in the dirt. Her eyes blazed panic.

“Tess!” Mare cried. Tess flung her small body toward the dark opening in the ground that wanted to swallow Momma. Nothing happened fast enough. Tess couldn’t make her legs react as rapidly as her heart. Her arms were pitifully short, her hands pushing through air like fish fighting the current. Tess’s index and middle fingers brushed the stony white knuckles of Momma’s left hand. Then Mare was ripped away, disappearing into blackness. Tess heard several hollow thumps as Mare Buckner tumbled down the steps. Then the scream came, so awful and loud Tess thought she had to be in a dream.

“Momma!” she cried back, crawling madly to the edge of the staircase. She saw movement like bugs crawling on the trees at night; a glistening shape one moment, a sense of liquid motion the next. She cried for her mother again and again. And then she saw her, or at least her hands, shaking as they came into the light.

They were much too white as they grabbed the lowest visible stair. Momma’s waxy face came into view and Tess screamed. Her chin and neck were red with blood. Momma’s eyes quivered in their sockets, but they bulged farther when they fell on Tess.

“Run,” Mare said, and the voice might have been the same raspy whisper she heard earlier. “Please, Tessie. Run.”
Mare’s gaze dropped as she gagged. She vomited on the stairs, spraying blood over the mildewed wood. Something else moved in the darkness and Momma was yanked out of view. A sickening ripping sound followed.

Tess ran. She ran so hard she couldn’t remember running later. It was as if she turned from the hole in the ground and ran straight into Papa’s barn. He rose from his workbench on lanky legs, asking what the hell she was doing. Tess screamed something about Momma and a cellar and a voice. She grabbed Abner Buckner by his overall straps and yanked with everything she had. “Help me!” she bellowed. “Help Momma!”

He stopped cussing and followed, grabbing a scattershot rifle as she took off back into the forest. A moment later they were there, looking into the blackness. Abner fished a lighter from his pocket and squatted next to the opening.

“Honey?” he yelled, waving his lighter toward stairs. “Mare, you in there? Did you fall or sumthin?”

“It’s down there,” Tess said through her sobs. “Something hurt Momma.”

Abner braced the rifle in the crook of his arm and started down the stairs. The flicker of the lighter was barely enough to light his way. But he went down the stairs, seven in all, and then a concrete floor. From the edge of the opening Tess saw glimmers of half-rotted shelves lining the walls. She saw stacks of old crates covered in thick coats of dust. What she didn’t see was her mother.

“Are you sure she went down here?” Abner asked, bending over to move the light across the floor. “I can’t even see her footprints in the dust.”

That wasn’t what bothered Tess. What her eyes stopped on and couldn’t veer away from no matter how hard she tried were the wooden stairs. She peered at the grayish-green planks, feeling a lump rise in her chest.

“The blood,” she whispered. “The blood is gone.”

Abner Buckner looked at his daughter’s rigid posture. She was on the verge of fainting, and he hadn’t the slightest notion why. But when he stopped calling for his wife, he heard something. It was oft and easy to miss amid the swaying tree branches, but the longer he listened, the more he thought the sound was there in the cellar with him.

Ticking—like the ticking of a clock.

Links: http://www.gypsyshadow.com/BenLarken.html#Hollows1




NEW NEW *** Sixes and Eights *** NEW NEW

11 Aug

Congratulations to Jamel DuBois on his new release at GSP.



 Jamel DuBois was born in a grassy ditch somewhere along an Arkansas back road, and the adventure could only get better. He left home at age seventeen, crossed the country by rail and tore up his return ticket. He joined the Navy, and found that oceans are gateways not barriers. He became a magazine editor, then a world traveler and a big-game hunter. He dispatched a wild boar in hand-to-hand combat, and faced down a Cape buffalo in a horn-to-belt buckle encounter. He has set foot in six dozen countries on six continents, wrote numerous articles for many of the guns and hunting magazines, and writes killer novels authentically set in South Africa.

Learn more about Jamel at his Website.

His book we are highlighting today is Sixes and Eights.



Thou shalt not kill. Neither shalt thou steal. These rules to live by are violated in some degree in all the stories in this collection: “Bring Me the Head of Kathleen Sullivan” relates the murder of a prominent Texas citizen. “Dominoes,” delicately positioned and when pressed into movement to nudge into the next one and that one into the next, results in a jumbled heap. In “Sad Songs,” the narrator is a songwriter-guitar player marked by hard work and hard times; and betrayal and lost love. “The Taking of Kaitlyn Peck” is the case of a young girl abducted on the way from school to her upscale neighborhood home. “Storm Clouds and Blue Skies,” one or the other, not both, mark the futures of these gypsy pilots. “Out of Focus.” Click, click, goes the mind of a killer, detailing revenge for a long endured and lying slur. “A Day At the Zoo,” certainly is no picnic, except for the man killers of a wildlife park in Africa.


 Bring Me the Head of Kathleen Sullivan

Peggy Vasquez, saddened and overcome at her mother’s recent and brutal demise, lost conscious connection to the ongoing eulogy being presented at the graveside. Friends and dignitaries, in seemingly unending succession, stepped to the speaker’s stand, which many required for physical support of their grief and disbelief. The respectful attendees to the funeral service offered condolences to the remaining family of Kathleen Sullivan, and praised Kathleen’s good works and the woman herself whose name had gained national prominence.

Peggy was the only of Kathleen’s six children residing in McAllen where Kathleen also lived—lived until last week. Peggy’s siblings, one sister and four brothers, had scattered around the country over the years as dictated by jobs and careers and marriages. Peggy was the second child. Her older sister lived in Oklahoma; two brothers were in Denver, one in Florida and one in Oregon. The family was close, just not close together. Peggy never considered leaving McAllen for any reason, because her mother lived there, and had lived alone and independently since the earlier death of Peggy’s father.

Peggy married locally, to Manuel Vasquez, and never really considered, as her siblings did, hers a mixed marriage. North Americans and Mexicans interacted freely in the Texas border and near-border towns. Peggy knew Manny when he was a young boy working at the Sullivan ranch years before. She and Manny grew up together, attending the same school, the same church, and the same social functions. Kathleen never objected to Peggy loving Manny, and their lightly tanned offspring, a girl and two boys, were Kathleen’s grandmotherly pride and joy. Kathleen often had said so.

Now the family was gathered again, the first time all had been together since their father’s funeral eight years before. There were more Sullivans now, additional grandchildren having been born who Grandfather Sean Sullivan never had the chance to know. Kathleen visited her sons and daughters-in-law at all the recent births, representing herself and her longtime lover, husband and family patriarch, Sean. Only Kathleen’s oldest child, Darina, ushered in no grandchildren, having failed to live up to the productive name Kathleen had wished on her. Darina, the account executive, and her husband, the airline pilot, were at the funeral along with all the Sullivan boys and their wives and children. Darina sought out Peggy following the end of the service.

Peggy wore a short black dress, black hose and black low heel shoes. The hose and heels came from her existing wardrobe; the dress was purchased for the occasion, a one-time wearing. Peggy would put it away, but not ever discard it. It was part of her mother-memories. The veil covering Peggy’s freckled face throughout the ceremony was thrown back over her head, revealing a shock of coppery hair. Tears concealed by the veil in place had run dry. She embraced her older sister.

“Peggy, how could you have let this happen?”

“Me, Darina? You blame me for this? Mother was murdered, in her own home, and it was sickening. I found her because she didn’t answer my calls and I went to her condo. How in God’s name can you hold me responsible?”

“I’m sorry Peggy. Of course I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded. It’s just been so terrible. I just can’t imagine someone doing something so horrible to Mom. And I can only imagine what you have gone through here alone. And as painful as I know it will be, I have to know what happened, when you feel like talking about it.”

“I think I can tell you now. I know the boys will ask the same things, but I don’t know if I can face you all at once. I don’t know if you all really want the truth.”

“Oh, my dear little sister, I do want to know. I have to know, and I want you to know how much I love you too. Tell me about how Mom was days ago, weeks ago; how she was and what she did. I am so sorry I live so far away. I’m so grateful Mom had you here to care for her. All of us always loved you for remaining with Mom while we all moved away. By rights, as the oldest, it should have been me who stayed here. I should have been the one taking care of her.”

“And you think if you had been here Mom would still be alive. Your implication is somehow I failed her and you and all the rest. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, no, no! Peggy. I don’t mean such an implication at all. If anything, I wish I could have saved you from being the one who found her. What you must have gone through . . . I simply cannot even comprehend.”

Links: http://www.gypsyshadow.com/JamelDuBois.html#SixesExc