Virtual Book Tour
Dates: 1/30/14 – 2/13/14
Genres:
Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
Horror/Occult
Teen/Young Adult
Blurb:
Halloween.
The night the barrier
between the dead and the living is as thin as muslin. Fourteen-year
old Josie, haunted by the death of her mother, leads her best friends
to an ancient cemetery to rub graves. Convinced she will come away
with proof of her mother’s spirit at last, the evening takes an
unexpected turn as the teens gravitate four ways into the haunted
grounds. Set against the backdrop of the rainy Pacific Northwest,
four graves will be rubbed, touching off a series of events that will
rattle their once mundane lives. From the lonely World War II hero to
an accused witch, the people buried beneath the stones have stories
that need an ending. The journey to unravel the mysteries leaves the
friends wondering if the graves would’ve been better off left
alone.
Excerpt:
WHY DO PEOPLE have to mess
with the dead on Halloween
anyway? They’re dead.
Respect the dead. Didn’t their folks teach
them any better? I squint
into the distance at a cluster of folks
standing inside the
cemetery gates.
“I’ll scare them good
and give them a piece of my mind along
the way,” I mumble as I
stomp the three hundred or so yards it takes
to reach the cemetery
entrance from my caretaker’s cottage. Can’t
help but think if I had
just done my job in the first place, I wouldn’t
be standing knee-deep in a
pile of trouble right now.
Not five minutes ago I’d
stood staring out the kitchen window
watching a dull, dreary
day change into something better. Leafless
gray trees framed an
orange and white fireball sky, framed it like
iron gates, and that is
when I’d remembered. Damn, Grace.
Ten years of watching over
Lakefront Cemetery and tonight of
all nights I’d forgotten
to lock the gates. My forty-year-old bones felt
soggy from a day of
rain-chilled grave tending. Clearly, I was
thinking more about a hot
bath and a cup of warm cider than doing
my job. Ah, well. With an
hour before sunset, I’d figured I had
plenty of time to put
things right.
I’d found my mud-caked
work boots and damp flannel coat
piled on the back porch
where I’d shed them an hour ago. As I
shoehorned my boots onto
bare feet, I’d spotted a group gathering at
the cemetery entrance. I
checked my watch. Five o’clock seemed
awful early to start
Halloween trouble, but there they were. I made
out four bodies, four or
five. Couldn’t tell for certain without my
glasses, and I wasn’t
willing to trudge back through the cottage with
muddy boots to collect
them up. I’d know soon enough.
As I stomp across the
grounds, I rehearse what I will say. I’ll
give them a lecture about
respecting the dead, then shoo them off
speedy quick. All worked
up, I don’t pay no mind to the noise my
boots make as I dodge
headstones and thunder through wet leaves
and mud. I want them to
hear me coming and be afraid. Too bad I
don’t have time to go
back for my hefty flashlight, or better yet, a
rusty shovel, to shake at
them. Boy, the stories they could tell their
friends tomorrow about the
crazy cemetery lady and her wicked
shovel.
“You’ll all think
twice about coming around here again after I
get through with you,” I
spit into the wind.
As I near, I see they’re
decked out in costumes. I count four of
them, teenagers, of
course. It’s mostly the teens that make trouble
around here. I duck behind
the Yessir’s family tomb to get a better
look. “Sorry if I’m
blocking your view, folks,” I whisper.
I steal quick peeks around
the white marble structure and make
out an oversized
superhero, a football player, Pocahontas and some
kind of dapper fella.
Pocahontas, a tiny
copper-headed girl, is giving them
instructions. I can’t
hear everything she says, but catch phrases like,
“Let a stone call you….
open your heart…. connect with the person
buried underneath…”
She doesn’t sound like
my typical vandal rat; I give her that
much credit. I rub my
chest where a knot has formed and lean in
closer to catch the gist
of her words.
The girl reaches into a
tan leather pouch and hands around
oversized pieces of paper
and chunks of black chalk, not the toilet
paper and spray paint I
expect to see. Art supplies. My knees give
out as the truth dawns on
me. They’ve come to rub the stones.
They’ve come to remember
the dead, not hurt ‘em.
The breath I didn’t know
I’d been holding bursts from my
mouth. My eyes cloud over.
My calloused hands ball into sweaty
fists and shake. My cheeks
burn with shame. I’ve been wrong about
these kids, pegged them as
vandals when they are bent on doing
something good. I fall
apart, but gather it all up again quick. I am
wrong and have to atone.
Good thing I’m already down on my
knees.
It’s been so long since
I‘ve said any kind of prayer. Too long. I’m
clumsy about how best to
place my hands, how far to bow my head,
and how to muster the
words. But I close my eyes, and feel warm
tears roll down my cheeks.
I send a prayer up to the God I’ve been
cursing for the past
decade.
“Let them have a
journey, Lord, a journey that begins with
remembering the dead and
rubbing a stone. Amen.”
Buy Links:
About Jennifer Hotes:
Raised across the river
from the Hanford Nuclear Reactor, Jennifer grew up looking at the
world a little differently. Now she uses her unique perspective and
glow-in-the-dark countenance to write YA novels and illustrate for
talented authors, preferably with a cat on her lap or dog at her
feet.
She blogs to teens because
she feels the world-at-large gives them a bad shake. Her latest blog
is all about finals week and how best to cope/endure.
Mrs. Hotes loves living in
rainy Seattle, volunteering in her children's schools and raising
funds for Providence Hospice of Seattle. Her first novel, Four
Rubbings is out now.
She is a member of SCBWI,
society of children's book writers & illustrators and is
currently painting a group of aging men posed in an old red truck for
a book cover.
Connect With The Author:
