Tag Archives: death

Bestselling Author Michelle Muto, Queen of the dark side.

Today I’m happy to have Michelle Muto stop by to share a little about her book Don’t Fear the Reaper. Michelle is also the author of the best selling, The Haunting Season, currently in the top ten best seller list of Amazon and Barnes and Noble. She is a multi-talented writer and if you like scary, you can’t go wrong.

Without further ado – here is Don’t Fear the Reaper, Chapter One sample.

Don't fear the reaper

Haunted by memories of her murdered twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her only ticket to eternal peace. But in death, she discovers the afterlife is nothing like she expected. Instead of peaceful oblivion or a joyful reunion with her sister, Keely is trapped in a netherworld on Earth with only a bounty-hunting reaper and a sarcastic demon to show her the ropes.

When the demon offers Keely her ultimate temptation–revenge on her sister’s killer–she must determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, the reaper and demon have been keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true–that her every decision changes how, and with whom, she spends eternity.

Chapter One:

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for they are with me.

I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood drift from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.

Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.

Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven…

I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?

She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.

I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d even gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan’s death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.

Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. Mom went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of any sort.

Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have been. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.

I shall fear no evil.

I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I shall not want, and I did want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell with demons cackling gleefully all around.

I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?

Before I’d gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one), I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I’d set the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.

It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.

I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal mantra.

The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.

Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.

The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.

I tried not to think of who would find my body or who’d read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.

My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.

Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.

Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.

I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?

No. Stop. A voice in my head screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please…

I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn’t remember getting out of the tub. And why’d I get back in? Did I use a towel?

Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I’ve tracked all over the bedroom carpet.

“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.

“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my father’s voice. It was softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red watercolor ribbons were gone.

Dull gray clouded my sight.

A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.

“—okay, Keely.”

Cold. So cold.

“I’m right here.”

There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so…blue, almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.

Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.


For more info on Michelle and to get your copy of Don’t Fear the Reaper, please follow the links below!

Michelle Muto


Amazon US

Amazon UK




Michelle’s blog

Michelle on Twitter

Michelle on Facebook

Leave a comment

Filed under Dark Fantasy books, Horror Books

Stories unwritten

This week I have Fred Limberg with a heartfelt, beautiful post on the meaning of true friendship, and dealing with the loss of two cherished lives. This is a story you don’t want to miss.


I kill people for a living.



My name is Fred Limberg and I write thrillers and mysteries. In every book I’ve written to date, with the exception of a foray into the YA genre last year, I’ve been killing off bad guys, the occasional good guy or gal, unlucky bystanders, and innocent victims for six years—give or take.

I’ve shot ‘em, stabbed ‘em, garotted ‘em, run them over, set them afire, dropped them off cliffs, drowned them, drugged them—you name it—I’ve done it to ‘em.

Yeah, me and Death are old pals. Death is a BFF with pretty much anyone who writes in these genres, and more than an acquaintance with writers in other genres. You can count on Death to add sizzle and mystery to a story. Death will kick start your plot, rev up the action, and get your readers heart’s racing.

Death is the anchor of virtually every whodunit ever written and ever to be written. As a writer you use Death; you manipulate the circumstances, you glorify and goreify it, you tease with it and toy with it. Yeah, as a writer, you got Death working for you…got it in the palm of your hand. It’s putty. Death is clay. Death is what-if on steroids waiting for a plot twist.

Until it’s a real death…

This past month I’ve had to confront real death instead of writing about it.

First…my damn dog died. Actually, we had the poor old guy ‘put to sleep’ after a decade and a half of loyal friendship and service. It wasn’t preceded by a car chase, though there had been a few of them over the many years. There was no misadventure, though we enjoyed several episodes involving squirrels and raccoons and timid neighbor kids. He simply grew old.

Not much of a story in that. Nothing thrilling or heroic there. All Charlie did was help us raise two wonderful kids who are now having kids of their own. It was foretold just shy of fifteen years ago when he was born. Life and death. There are no surprise endings when it’s a real death.

I’ll never be able to write that story.

Then…my damn friend died. I’ve known Chad for thirty years. He was the son of my oldest and best friend. I’d known him since he was 10 years old, watched him struggle through his teens and twenties trying to figure out what he was supposed to be when he grew up. I took mental notes. It helped me be a better father than I might have been.

What he was supposed to be was a great guy, a loving husband…a doting father, proud to bursting of his two young sons and his family. He was a gentle giant—six foot way-bigger than me, 230 pounds, played with swords and martial arts—who was studying nursing so he could further his career with cutting edge heart-monitoring technology that was saving lives. He grew up to be all that and more.

Diagnosed with cancer in November, he died in August.

No mystery there—I saw the scans. Cancer is the yellow, orange, and scarlet blood-red of Doppler radar tornadoes. There was no basement to hide in.

Instead of a thriller it was more like a war story— an unrelenting Blitzkreig…the cancer advancing and invading, conquering organs and systems almost at will. And Chad—fighting back with at first conventional treatments and then more experimental and controversial tactics…never had a chance.

There was no mystery there, and the only suspense was the fervent hope we all hoarded for any sign of remission. There was no gunplay. The experienced swordsman never got to have it out with his formidable foe—fighting and slashing toe to toe with his cowardly enemy.

Chad was murdered by an assassin; the most heartless, ruthless assassin the world has ever known—Code name….Cancer.

That’s another story I’ll never be able to write.

Will real death and the memory of the incredible sadness I have felt recently make a difference in future stories…the mysteries and thrillers yet to come? I don’t think there’s any question that it will, although I have no idea how the sadness and hopelessness and feelings of loss and anger will manifest themselves.

All I know is…I will NEVER be able to write the dog story or chronicle the valiant young husband’s battle with terminal cancer.

I can’t see the screen through the tears.

Fred Limberg

Ferris Bluff on Amazon

Ferris Bluff on Barns and Noble

Ferris Bluff on Smashwords



Filed under Indie Writers Unite Blog Tour, Mystery genre