Karen Lynn Nolan is an award-winning writer of Appalachian fiction, mystery/suspense, and narrative nonfiction. Her years in the eastern Kentucky mountains instilled a love of storytelling, mystery, humor, stubbornness, and deep faith. Contact her at karenlynnnolan.com.




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If there really is a God, then let the roof of the mine collapse on Daddy today and send him to hell, where he belongs.
Coreen plucked a chenille thread from the faded bedspread and flung it into the dark space behind her cot. Tears blended with sweat and slid across her face. Stained curtains fluttered as a steamy breeze blew down the holler, through the coal camp, and into the dining room that served as her sleeping quarters.
The room seemed gloomier than usual. Dark shadows lurked in the corners and threatened to swallow up the buffet, discarded by a family who could afford something better. Its sagging drawers and chipped paint made her sad. The shadows closed in on her too as she lay on the metal cot, tucked into the corner like the Christmas gift nobody wanted.
Springs squeaked as Coreen turned away from the room and stared out the window. Mountains rose in every direction, like prison walls around the mining camp. She ran her fingers across a fresh bruise. If only she could escape. Especially today. Especially after what he did this morning—and what he said he planned to do tomorrow. But no matter how hard she tried, no answer came to mind.
A low rumble echoed through the hollers. The odor of dirt mixed with coal dust seeped through the window. A storm was coming. Coreen twirled her ponytail, nearly the color of the faded-yellow chenille bedspread beneath her, and wrapped it into a bun. A gust of wind whipped the curtains into the air, slapping her damp skin in a torturous dance.
A raindrop plopped onto the tin roof, then another and another until the sound resembled an approaching coal train. The intensity mirrored Coreen’s anxiety. She lay there listening, thinking about a solution to her problem, dreaming of a happy ending—until her eyes flickered and closed.

* * *​

A boom exploded. Windows rattled and the cot shook. Coreen shot up with a gasp. An eerie yellow tint filled the room. Her heart pounded. “Mama? Mama? Where you at?”
All was silent except for the rumbles of thunder and the concussive pounding of rain on the roof. Across the room, light framed the door to her parents’ room. She listened. No sounds inside the house. Did it mean he wasn’t home yet? Was she safe for now?
Lightning sizzled outside her window and filled the house with pulsing flashes. A gust of wind picked up the rain-soaked curtains and slapped Coreen across the face. The thunder cracked with such violence, it seemed to lift the house into the air and drop it.
“Mama!” she screamed as terror wrapped itself around her.
 

​CHAPTER 3
SCREW YOU, AWESOME KISSER
RUBY

I eat an entire Listerine PocketPak on the subway ride home to kill any lingering germs in my mouth from Awesome Kisser. I’m annoyed by the whole thing, but at least he apologized and seemed sincere about the acci- dental tongue invasion. Too bad the hotness of the mem- ory is marred by raging Brittany and the hack in the face.

After getting home, I rinse with mouthwash, down six vitamin C capsules and some anti-flu holistic stuff, and then I go ahead and make myself my customary before- bed, pre-audition nighttime drink of hot honey-lemon water, and pray I’ve done a good enough job of ridding myself of cough germs.
I climb into bed, note my sheets lack a fresh scent, question when I last washed them, then I set my alarm and close my eyes. Behind my lids appears the hottie— whose name is apparently Banny, or maybe I misheard and it’s Danny. It’s not really a hot guy name. I’m going to stick with Awesome Kisser.

Now that I’m past the shock-and-awe factor I can fully appreciate that man’s hotness in the shouty caps sense of the word. It’s unfortunate he dates vapid, self-absorbed model-y types and not starving artists. I have a feeling “date” isn’t the appropriate word anyway. It’s also unfor- tunate that he has poor coughing manners.

I consider that he was likely a guest at the engagement party and he very well may be a guest at the wedding as well. If I’m still dateless by then he could make an ex- cellent potential dance partner, depending of course on how tight he is with Armstrong. If they’re close friends I don’t think it’s advisable to get involved in any semi- unclothed dancing outside of the wedding celebrations, no matter how hot he is. I don’t want to run the risk of encountering him again should things not go as well as one hopes.

Eventually I stop fantasizing about what’s under his suit and pass out.

I’m about to find out exactly what’s in Awesome Kiss- er’s designer pants when a repetitive, annoying sound dis- tracts me. I pause just before I smooth a hand over the amazingly prominent bulge while he tilts my head back, his soft lips brushing mine, his hot tongue sweeping . . .

The wisps of the dream fade and I crack a lid. The fantasy breaks with the obnoxious sunlight screaming its wake-up call, along with my stupid phone. Sometimes I’m slutty in my dreams.

I reach for the phone, remembering that Amie prom- ised me a morning call, just in case I messed up my alarm, which has happened in the past. I was on the ball last night, though. I set three alarms, all within five min- utes of each other so I wouldn’t have an opportunity to fall back asleep.

“Rise and shine, Ruby! I’m your wake-up call!” How she manages to sound so damn chipper at seven-thirty in the morning after her engagement party is beyond me.

A seal-like bark comes out when I attempt to grum- ble hello and tell her off for interrupting my dream.

“Ruby? Are you there?”

I make a second attempt at speaking but all I manage is another bark.

“Do you have a bad connection? I told you not to go with the cheap provider. You know how terrible the re- ception is.”

I clear my throat and immediately regret it, as it feels like knives are traveling up my esophagus.

“Ruby?” Amie asks again and then sighs. “I’m hang- ing up and trying again.”

Once the line goes dead I immediately hit the video call. Amie picks up right away. She’s wearing a white robe with her wavy hair pulled up into a ponytail, look- ing as fresh as baked bread out of the oven. I on the other hand, look like yesterday’s garbage based on the small image in the corner of my phone.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?”

I motion to my throat and shake my head. I give speak- ing another shot, just in case my inability to make more than random, audible sounds is a result of waking up. I usually don’t have to use words until after my morning coffee. All I get is another one of those squeaky moans and more sharp pain in my throat.
Amie sucks in a gasp and slaps her hand over her mouth. “You have no voice!”

I nod.

“How are you going to audition?”

The final dregs of sleep slip away. I mouth oh God. A mime is the only part I can audition for with no voice, or one of the dancer roles with no lines. They don’t make nearly as much money as central, or even secondary character, roles—which is what I’m hoping to score. The pay scale for that is far higher than for a lineless role. It definitely won’t cover the basics, like rent and food, let alone the minimum payments on my credit card. I’ve been banking on this audition to get me out of the hole I’ve dug for myself over the past few weeks.

The phone conversation is pointless since Amie can’t read lips and I can’t respond. She tells me she’s coming over. I try to tell her not to bother, but again, with the lack of words it’s impossible to convey. I wait until she hangs up and text her to tell her it’s not necessary. Besides, this thing I have is clearly contagious since I must’ve gotten it from Awesome Kisser, and I don’t want to pass it on to her. Damn Awesome Kisser—ruining the already ques- tionable state of my life.

I roll out of bed, the full-body ache hitting me with the movement. I must be dying. And I’m not just being dramatic. Every cell in my body hurts. I drag myself to the kitchen and fill the kettle. Maybe a lemon-honey hot water toddy will help restore my voice. Based on my re- cent unlucky streak, I have my doubts.

I shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and root around in the medicine cabinet for some decent drugs. All I have is regular-strength Tylenol, so it’ll have to do. I climb into the shower without checking the temperature first—it takes forever to heat up and then fluctuates be- tween lukewarm and scalding. I step under the spray during a scalding phase and huddle in the corner until it’s bearable.

I’d like to say the shower helps me feel better. It does not. The warm water also does little to help my voice. Although I’m past just squeaking to barely audible one- word phrases, such as “ow.” I’m praying to the voice-miracle gods that the honey-lemon combo will further improve my ability to speak.

Once out of the shower I doctor up my water, adding extra lemon and honey. Not only do I burn the crap out of my tongue, it feels like serrated blades coated in acid sliding down my throat. Still, I get dressed in basic black tights and a black tank with a loose, gauzy gray shirt over top. I dry my hair and put on makeup in hopes that ap- pearing put together will make it so. I have to double up on powder when the effort to prepare my face causes me to sweat.
I take a second hot lemon-honey toddy with me on the subway and arrive for my audition half an hour early. Not that my promptness matters. I’m still unable to speak above a whisper. My despair balloons like a marshmal- low in the microwave at the mass of people performing voice warm-up exercises around me.

I make an attempt to do the same, but the hoarse, croaklike sound is drowned out by the crystal clear voice of the perfectly gorgeous woman standing next to me. As I listen to the sound of a thousand soaring angels spew out of her mouth, I shiver with what I fear is the begin- ning of a fever. Sweat breaks out across the back of my neck and travels down my spine, along with a violent shiver. As if today could be any worse than it already is, my stomach does this weird, knotting thing.

“Ruby Scott.”

I glance at the director, who’s thankfully still looking fresh, and not beaten down by hundreds of craptastic au- ditions. Those are yet to come. I shoulder my bag and follow him to the theater.

“You’re auditioning for the role of Emma today, cor- rect?” He doesn’t give me a chance to confirm. “I’d like you to start with the song at the beginning of act two.”

“Okay,” I croak feebly, cringing at the raspy sound. At least I can speak, even if I sound like a prepubescent boy with his nuts caught in his zipper.

The director looks up from his clipboard, his frown an omen.

“I seem to have lost my voice.” He has to strain to hear me.

He heaves a frustrated sigh. “You can’t audition if you don’t have a voice.”

“I didn’t want to miss it. Maybe I could audition for a dancer part?” Fewer words are better.

He purses his lips. “Auditions for dancer roles aren’t until later in the week.”

“I understand, but I’m here and if you can’t hear me sing, at least you could see me dance?” I fight the gag reflex as another wave of nausea hits me.

He sighs and relents, gesturing to the stage. I thank him, then drop my bag at the edge of the stage and get into first position. My brain is foggy and my body aches horribly, but I can’t pass up this opportunity for a mod- est, yet steady income for a few months. I can’t afford to rack up additional credit card debt, and I don’t want to ask my father for more money, because that will make him aware of how much of a struggle this is. Then he’ll make his case for me to come work for him, as is his mas- ter plan. I know I can do this.

The music cues up, and as I start to move my stom- ach does that rolling-heave thing again. There isn’t any food in it, but all of a sudden the honey-lemon water I consumed this morning decides to stage a revolt. I’m in the middle of a spin—not the best idea when nauseous— and the next wave hits me; violent and unrelenting.

I attempt to keep my mouth closed, but the intensity of the spasm forces it open. I spray the stage with par-tially digested honey-lemon water, and what appears to be last night’s shrimp tarts and mushroom canapé appe- tizer dinner—in an Exorcist-like dramatic flair.
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And thus ends my audition.

The Soul Dweller
By Stephen Paul Sayers
Genre: Horror
 
*NEW RELEASE*
An ancient evil has returned... and it comes for the children.
A battle between good and evil rages across otherworldly dimensions. Caretakers protect earthly souls--jumpers hunt them as prey. RG and Kacey Granville have made it their life's mission to intercept and defeat these dark forces, but nothing could prepare them for the malevolent spirit they're facing--a deadly jumper, plucking children from their homes, taking them back in time to a hidden corner of the past...
... adding them to his collection.
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In a heart-stopping trek across time, the team must risk it all and jump seventy years into the past to rescue the innocent--and hope their mission isn't a one-way ticket into history. And if they're to save the children, they must halt an unspeakable evil that will stop at nothing to protect its 'precious' souls.
The second installment in the Caretakers Series, The Soul Dweller brings every child's nightmare to life and puts a face to that monster in the closet.   
 
Pick up A Taker of Morrows (Book One) for $0.99 on Amazon, Nov. 26 only!  
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Stephen Paul Sayers is a college professor and best selling author of supernatural thriller and horror fiction. His debut novel, A Taker of Morrows, was published by Hydra Publications in June 2018. The second book in the Caretakers series, The Soul Dweller, is set to launch TODAY, November 26. His short fiction has appeared in Unfading Daydream and Well-Versed. 

As a research scientist, Stephen yields to the left-brain world of data analysis and statistics by day, but releases the demons in his slightly twisted right-brain by night. It gets strange around dusk when neither side is fully in control. He makes his home in Columbia, MO and Plymouth, MA—not far from the Cape Cod locations he writes about in the Caretakers novels. Throughout his journey, he has accumulated five guitars, four herniated discs, three academic degrees, two dogs, and one wife, son, and daughter. But not necessarily in that order. 

For more about the author, visit https://www.stephenpaulsayers.com or reach out on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/stephenpaulsayers;
Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/SayersAuthor; or
​Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/stephenpaulsayers
 
On Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07K1P2ZLL

EXCERPT
 
You wonder sometimes. About a face.

Someone passing you on the street, in the subway or airport, a face you’ve never laid eyes on before and will likely never see again.

So many different ones, with welcoming eyes, maybe an intimidating scowl…or a false smile, a distracted glance, a courteous nod, a lustful once-over.

A face can communicate some things…but not everything. No face reveals the true world lurking behind it. It hides things no one could ever see.

No one but Robert Granville, that is. “RG” could see it all.

The thoughts of unsuspecting strangers streamed through their well-constructed facades and into RG’s mind like blinding sleet in a winter storm. Their truths…well, don’t you look like shit today, honey…their sins…you still have time to hide the body where no one will ever find it…their pleas for help…don’t let him track me down again. Don’t let him find me here, please God…

Who would have guessed looking into RG’s face that he sheltered some of the darkest secrets of the universe behind his brown eyes and kind smile, secrets nobody could possibly fathom.

Who would have guessed that he had discovered a battle between good and evil raging outside life’s boundaries, one determining the fate of earthly souls, where ‘caretakers’ protect the living and ‘jumpers’ hunt them as prey; that his loving wife, Kacey, could glimpse the future in her dreams and change it, and transport herself into otherworldly dimensions; that his long-dead father and caretaker, Morrow, had saved him from a collision course with a ruthless and vengeful jumper from the afterlife.

No one could glimpse that in his face.

RG stared at the familiar curves and lines reflecting in the bathroom mirror as he braved another day, another chance to mull over the abrupt, life-altering events that had upset his world, turned him upside down and inside out, and redefined his life. And he was nowhere near wrapping his head around it. Life had tried to settle back into some variance of normal, the entire last year shifting him back to a steady acceptance of lost ground, unfavorable notoriety, and the need to claw his way back out of the trenches.
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Shuffling into the bedroom, RG ran a hand through his thick hair to flatten it down, what Kacey lovingly called his wavy brown garden of weeds, then stretched through a silent yawn. He
paused a moment and traced his wife’s face and body contours with an appreciative gaze, part of his waking ritual he had yet to kick. With a spate of freckles across her nose and a river of near-auburn hair spilling over tan shoulders, Kacey Granville could send his heartbeat rocketing with a simple glance, or laugh, or a million other things she drew from her arsenal to paralyze his senses. And each passing day brought with it something different, something else to trip the switch and increase the palpitations. If a cardiologist wired him up and monitored him throughout the day, the wild swings in rhythm would force the doc to send for an ambulance before he had finished his first cup of morning coffee.