Today I would like to introduce you to
a lovely book by a fantastic indie author. The book I am speaking is Don’t Fear the
Reaper and the amazing author of this book is Michelle Muto. I, for one, have
this book at the top of my TBR pile and can’t wait to dive into what I have
been repeatedly hearing is an extraordinary read.
So, what’s the book about? Here is a
brief description:
Grief-stricken by the
murder of her twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her ticket to
eternal peace and a chance to reunite with her sister. When Keely succeeds in
taking her own life, she discovers death isn’t at all what she expected.
Instead, she’s trapped in a netherworld on Earth and her only hope for
reconnecting with her sister and navigating the afterlife is a bounty-hunting
reaper and a sardonic, possibly unscrupulous, demon. But when the demon offers
Keely her greatest temptation—revenge on her sister's murderer—she must uncover
his motives and determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns,
both reaper and demon are keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true—that
her every decision will change how, and with whom, she spends eternity.
Still, not tempted? How can this be?
OK, this will lure you in for sure. Michelle has graciously provided me with
the first chapter of this marvelous story. Here is your tempting teaser!
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.
OMG! Wasn’t that flippin’
awesome? You KNOW that it was. OK, now
hurry along to your favorite book buying hub and click the buy now button, folks! No dilly
dallying…
Thanks you so much, Michelle for the
sneak peek into Don’t Fear the Reaper! You’ve got yourself a best seller here!
I just know it!
If you would like to learn more about
Michelle Muto and her writing please check out the list of links below!
Where to buy/download sample chapters:
Connect with Michelle:
Have you already read Michelle Muto’s
Don’t Fear the Reaper or her Book of Lost Souls? If you have, please leave a
comment and tell us why you love Michelle and/or her books. I love Michelle
because she sweet, crazy and one of a kind!
Please be sweet and retweet!
