Paranormal Anthology With a TWIST Part 1

Paranormal Anthology with a TWIST.

Rene Folsom.

Foreword.

This started out as a contest but grew into an idea. This is the second anthology that was created out of a contest on my Facebook page. The authors and readers were given the opportunity to write a short story using the guidelines provided. This go round I received over twenty-five entries. Only eleven were chosen, but every story deserves a moment of recognition. I want to thank everybody for their time and their wonderful imaginations. The eleven chosen are what you will find in this anthology, a collection of short stories that left me in awe at the talent of these amazing authors. These stories come from already published authors as well as readers who aspired to write.

The guidelines used to write these short stories were ones that I thought would appeal to the audience. They were also a lot broader and open-ended than the previous anthology. This left a collection of shorts that will take you all over the paranormal genre.

*This anthology will be paranormal in nature but can cover as broad a spectrum as you can imagine: Vampires, Weres, Shifters, Ghosts, Witches, Demons, Fae, whatever mythological creature you can imagine. Your story can be Romance, Horror, Mystery, Time-Travel, whatever sub-genre that tickles your fancy ... the ONLY requirement is that your story contains a TWIST. It has to be unique, unexpected, beyond imagining, shocking-AWESOME. I have complete faith that y'all can deliver stories that will wow me, shock me, and leave me gasping for more.*

I believe that the authors of these short stories more than met the guidelines; they exceeded even my expectations. I hope that you enjoy reading these as much as I did. Please leave a review when you are finished on Amazon or Goodreads and let us know what you think. Also, please take the opportunity to connect with these amazing authors. Author links are included on the individual t.i.tle pages of the stories.

Enjoy your read!.

Cynthia Shepp.

www.cynthiashepp.com.

www.cynthiashepp.wordpress.com.

www.facebook.com/cynthiashepp.

www.apocalypseanthology.com.

Dedication.

First and foremost to my husband, Scott. You are my everything. Without your love, your support, and your willingness to help with "inside" jobs, none of this would be possible. As always, to my children: Jake, Colee, and Spencer. I love you all very much.

It is also dedicated to the wonderful people that helped me get this anthology out there. All of the fantastic authors that submitted their work, to Rene Folsom-my weirdo/freak internet twin-for her fabulous cover artwork and for helping me through each and every process of putting this together... again, and to every person that helps me make my blog and page a success.

Y'all are all Rock Stars in my eyes.

Cynthia Shepp.

Table of Contents.

Voices of the Soul by Rene Folsom.

Number 18 by Michael Loring.

Sweet Lenora by Bart Hopkins.

Truth or Dare by Jon Messenger.

Suburban Zombie by Anthony Lance.

All I Want for Christmas by Jason Brant.

In the Eyes of the Beholder by Penelope Bartotto.

Little Tchotchkes by Nicki Scalise.

I am Serna by Magen McMinimy.

Bloodlines by S. L. Dearing.

Metronome by Eaton Thomas Palmer.

Voices of the Soul.

Rene Folsom.

Author Dedication.

I have to give a huge thanks to my freak cyber-twin, Cynthia Shepp. Without her, my inspiration for this story would be non-existent. She is my life raft and has kept me afloat more often than she realizes.

I would also like to give a shout out to my sister, Mich.e.l.le, for constantly putting up with my writing ADD and character addictions.

Lastly, I want to mention my online family for all their support: Natalie, Jayce, and even the douche, Jason. I'm so glad y'all haven't gotten sick of me yet.

About Rene.

Being a mother of three and wife of one, Rene has had to juggle career, kids, family, grocery shopping, and stain removal. Years of experience have provided her plenty of creative material to work with. While her artistic side as a graphic designer will always be a source of inspiration, using both words and design to take these very different experiences was just the next step in her journey.

Residing on the beaches of sunny Central Florida, Rene is now branching out into the literary world, combining her love of art and reading by providing contemporary and paranormal romance stories to her readers.

Follow Rene.

Website: www.renefolsom.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/renefolsom Amazon: www.amazon.com/author/renefolsom Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/6949037 Read More from Rene.

Heart You: www.amzn.com/B00BUU4WJY.

Voices of the Soul.

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart."

Helen Keller.

Chapter One.

Throughout my entire life, I've heard voices. Voices inside my head. I've never given much thought as to why I have this gift... or this curse, depending on which way you look at it. At least, not until a few days before my fourteenth birthday.

My mom and I were out shopping. She always made sure she handled every detail of my birthday herself with loving care. She enjoyed planning and, most of all, making me happy. She always used to say, "A happy Ella makes a happy mama!"

Corny, I know. But the words always tugged at my heart.

On our way home, we were listening to music and singing when they say a large truck hit us. I don't remember anything about the accident. I just remember I broke both of my legs and wasn't allowed to see my mom afterward, the latter being the most painful.

Then one day they wheeled me into my mom's hospital room. I don't remember how many days had pa.s.sed since the accident, but it felt like forever since I had seen her. All the machines made it seem like it wasn't really her. My dad couldn't talk to me through the tears that stained his face.

I didn't cry. Not right away anyway. Actually, I was a bit confused at first. Maybe in denial. I didn't know why I needed to cry until my aunt explained, in a rather roundabout way, that my mom was no longer living. Machines had been keeping her alive because her body couldn't any longer.

I could hear the voices... the sad voice of my dad murmuring I love you and don't leave me through incoherent sobs. My aunt's voice saying how much I need my mother. Another man's voice, I'm a.s.suming the doctor's since he was the only other person in the room, saying we should end the inevitable. Several other inaudible words and voices, confusing my brain and making me dizzy.

Curse. It was definitely a curse.

Grabbing my head and ma.s.saging my temples with my thumbs, I squeezed my eyes shut and wished for all the voices to stop. I pretended these voices were just my screwed up brain imagining what people were thinking. I knew I was cracked. As much as I suffered, I never wanted to be labeled as the crazy girl who heard voices. So, I kept my madness to myself.

Suddenly, through all the banter whirling inside my head, I heard the most angelic voice. The voice seemed to cut through all of the muddle, speaking to me with such love it made my heart melt.

Orella, darling. I need you to know how special you are. You have a gift. You have my gift. I've known all along just how unique you are.

A gift? Pfft.

I looked around at my dad and my aunt. I knew they couldn't hear her, but I still needed to see if they had any reaction to her voice echoing inside my befuddled brain.

Come closer, Ella.

I've never known the voices to speak directly to me. But she was. She was speaking to me. She was saying my name and beckoning me to come to her. Was this really happening? Or was this some sort of brain damage caused by the accident?

I could feel the excitement bubbling up in my heart at the possibility my mom was actually speaking to me. Oh G.o.d. I hoped she really was speaking to me. Because if this was just a new development of my dementia-I was sure as the sky is blue that I would not survive the heartache.

To avoid odd stares from my other family members, I tried my darndest to keep my emotions in check. Face like steel, Ella.

Slowly, I used my bruised hands against the cold bars of my wheelchair to make my way over to my mom's hospital bed and battered body. My aunt tried to help me, but I dismissed her with a wave and a small smile. Gently, I placed my fingers on top of my mom's limp hand. Her hand was cold. Ice cold.

Yes, I am cold. My body is no longer a part of me, so I cannot feel the chill that courses through my skin.

My hand reacted and jerked back-completely startled she just answered my thoughts. I opened my mouth and hesitated. I didn't know what to say.

Don't speak aloud, Ella. All you have to do is speak to me in your mind.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I'm confused. I don't understand. How can I hear you?

You've always been able to hear me. You can hear anyone's thoughts. But thoughts have the most strength when directed at the recipient. Which is why, at the moment, my thoughts are the loudest voice in your mind.

Looking up at my mom's face, a face covered in tubes and pads to monitor her brain activity, I saw no reaction. No light. No life. Not even the monitors showed activity.

No, darling. My body will not respond. This is why I'm speaking directly to you now for the first time. They need to let me go. Your dad knows I do not want to be kept like this. I've instructed him in the past to let me go if I were ever in this state.

A tear trickled down my face as I thought, But, you can't leave me. I may have been acting selfishly, but I couldn't bear to lose my mother. I needed her. Especially now that she's telling me I'm not a total nutcase.

I don't want to leave you. I know how much this will hurt. But, I'm not here. Not really. My lungs won't inflate. My heart won't beat. My mind is barely a whisper. You... you are the only one who I am even able to say goodbye to. I needed you to know of your gift and how much I truly love you. Remember, the best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even heard. They must be felt with the heart.

My mom always used that variation of Helen Keller's quote, but it didn't occur to me why she changed the words until now. Now I knew her variation was deliberate. She wasn't just a mother who couldn't remember the famous words. She was insightful-and I knew deep down that losing her would break me.

A thought came to me as she said her goodbyes. Does Daddy or Aunt Sybil know? Do they know I can hear you? Do they know I can hear them?

Daddy knows nothing of our gifts. I worry it will make him nervous or he may not understand. I have told Aunt Sybil, but she does not share the same gift and is skeptical of my sincerity. She does not know you possess the same soul-seeing abilities as I do.

Soul-seeing abilities? I asked, unsure of what she was actually telling me.

You are a soul seer, Orella Hugh. Your clairvoyance makes you exceptional. There are not many like us, who can read thoughts, read the souls of others...

"Miss Hugh, are you with us today?" the booming voice of my art teacher interrupted my memories, bringing me back to the present.

I looked up and nodded quietly, unable to keep the sorrow from my face. My mother's death may have been nearly six years ago, but the pain-the searing hole in my heart-made it feel like I was losing her over and over again. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around my waist in a desperate attempt to hold myself together-sure as s.h.i.t I would fall apart at any moment.

I'll teach her to daydream in my cla.s.s, Mr. Burns thought as he asked out loud, "Well, Ella? Can you give your opinion on Degas' painting of the Absinthe Drinker?"

G.o.d. Really? Why would he think it's helpful to call me out like that? I mentally rolled my eyes in an attempt to express my irritation without him noticing.

Looking up at the projected image, I spoke confidently, explaining the image I already studied in high school and hearing my mother's voice echo the answer in my head. "Some say the L'Absinthe painting is a representation of the increase in social segregation during the fast-growing stages of Paris. The woman in the painting is an actress and the man is a bohemian painter, although I do not remember their names. The cafe..."

As I droned on, the cla.s.sroom door opened, saving me from continuing.