Book Trailer |
SynopsisChapel Playhouse (Book 2): Violent premonitions draw psychic sleuth, Mickey McCoy, to the University of Brookdale. There he must unravel the mysteries surrounding an abandoned theater if he’s to save the life of nineteen-year-old coed, Casia Winfred. Unbeknownst to her, events that took place long before she was born have put her in jeopardy, and her date with destiny is drawing near. Using every psychic gift in his arsenal, Mickey races against the clock to sort rumor from truth. Is the ghost that haunts the theater really a threat? Or is Casia’s predator the human variety? One by one, answers come to light, putting Mickey in as much danger as the girl he’s trying to save.
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Praise from Readers
Excerpt
Chapel Playhouse is an excellent mixture between a paranormal mystery and a sort of new-age gothic horror book, as it mixes supernatural elements with elements of the gothic horror genre. It offers characters with strong, complex personalities and a plotline with twists and turns that will keep you reading till the very end. The story isn’t very straightforward, it’s complex and multilayered and the mysteries are solved only one at a time, the final clues lingering till the very end of the novel.
Majanka Verstraete, author & blogger
Chapel Playhouse flows rapidly. Even if you multitask, as many of us do, this book will draw you into the mysteries involved and keep you wanting to read..."just one more page". The story has several plot twists that keep you wondering and trying to second guess the outcome. For a fast read and nice escape, enjoy Chapel Playhouse.
F. L. Gold, PHd - Author of Adultery is Universal,
but I'm Getting Married Anyway
Majanka Verstraete, author & blogger
Chapel Playhouse flows rapidly. Even if you multitask, as many of us do, this book will draw you into the mysteries involved and keep you wanting to read..."just one more page". The story has several plot twists that keep you wondering and trying to second guess the outcome. For a fast read and nice escape, enjoy Chapel Playhouse.
F. L. Gold, PHd - Author of Adultery is Universal,
but I'm Getting Married Anyway
Chapter 5
The first time the dream took place it was his wedding night. But Mickey awoke and had no idea how it played out. Now he was on his honeymoon in Maui and the dream came again. This time Mickey slept.
He was in a room, one so dark he couldn't see, and it was icy. Then the temperature changed. It went from cold to hot in an instant and Mickey felt beads of sweat on his forehead.
Where am I? What am I doing here? Am I sweating from the heat, or am I afraid?
Fear. I'm afraid.
His nostrils flared. There was smoke—biting, harsh and hot. He tried to see, but he couldn't. Where was the smoke coming from?
He should leave. Every fiber of his body wanted to. But he couldn't. There was something he had to accomplish. He moved forward, looking for the source of the smoke, and heard the crackle of distant flames. The smoke grew thicker, searing tissue as it moved into his lungs. He began to cough. Sweat soaked his clothes.
“Get out.”
A voice. Who's voice?
He couldn't tell if it was male or female.
“You can't save her.”
Her? He thought of Casia. Is that why I can't leave? I have to save Casia?
Mickey dropped to his knees and the coughing got worse. He had to keep going. He had to find her.
“Mickey.”
The fire wasn't where he was. He had time. He had to have time. He tried to call out Casia's name but choked instead. His eyes burned from the ash. A horrible smell filled the air.
“Mickey, wake up. You're choking.”
Mickey rolled from side to side, fingers at his throat.
“Mickey, wake up. You're having a bad dream.”
His eyes flew open. Marjorie was on one elbow, hand on his chest. He pushed himself erect and his coughing trailed. It was the dead of night and dark in their hotel suite. Mickey switched on the lamp next to the bed.
“I'm sorry I woke you.” He coughed once more, his throat raspy.
“That sounds bad.” She put a hand on his forehead. “You're burning up. You must be coming down with something. A doctor. We need to get you—”
Mickey took her hand before she could climb out of bed. “I don't need a doctor. I'm not sick.” He hated explaining things, even to Marjorie who would never question the reliability of what he had to say. It was just that sometimes the things Mickey felt seemed too fantastic even for him. “It's Casia.”
“Luce's friend?”
“At our wedding I had a vision. I saw her burn to death.”
Marjorie looked surprised.
“I didn't tell you because I wanted to be certain it was more than just one of those things, weird but not necessarily meaningful.”
“Okay. But now?”
Mickey swallowed and rubbed his throat. “But now I've had this dream. I don't know where I was, in a building somewhere. It was on fire and very smoky. I couldn't see. Someone was telling me to get out, that I couldn't save her. By her, the voice meant Casia. And just before you woke me, I could smell flesh burning. I think we need to call Luce and see if everything's okay.”
“It's three hours later there than here. California’s still on daylight savings time. She might not answer.”
Mickey got out of bed and located his cell phone. He turned it on. “I know it's late, but that smell. It has me rattled.”
He punched in the number and Luce did answer.
“Why are you calling me?” He heard her yawn. “You should be making passionate love to my mother or be asleep.” Another yawn. “Is something wrong?”
“No, everything is fine here. I was wondering how things are on your end.”
“At two in the morning?”
Mickey grimaced. “Yes, at two in the morning.”
“Well, quiet, right now. I was asleep. Rehearsal went great.”
“Good, good. Anything else going on?”
“Mm, yeah. There was a murder on campus and Casia's boyfriend is a suspect. The police are looking for him.”
“Oh. How's Casia?”
“Worried.”
“But she's okay?”
“Oh, sure. In fact, it may be a good thing. He gets arrested she may figure out she deserves better.”
“So you think it’s a good thing.”
“Not the murder, the arrest. What's bothering you, Mickey? You sound funny.”
“Just had a feeling I should call. I'm glad you're fine. Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”
They hung up and Mickey got back into bed.
“Feel better?” Marjorie placed her hand on his forehead. “Temperature seems normal.”
“Yes. Much. Luce says Casia's okay.”
“Good.” Marjorie gave him a kiss and slid under the covers. Mickey turned off the light. He wished he could simply give Casia a call and say, “You know what? I'm psychic and I saw you burn to death in a vision and after that I had this dream where I tried to rescue you from a burning building. So I'm thinking you need to be careful. Don't play with matches. Don't go inside any buildings that could catch fire . . .” Yeah, wouldn't that go over well?
Marjorie's voice rose from the dark. “Go to sleep. We'll get through to Casia.”
Mickey smiled. She knew him so well. And to think, if it hadn't been for that magazine story, they never would have met. His gaze drifted to her. And, if he hadn't found the courage to ask her to dinner months later, they wouldn't be married now.
Marjorie turned in the bed and snuggled next to him.
“Thinking about us?” she asked groggily.
He smiled. Marjorie claimed not to have a sixth sense.
“I'm thinking about us.”
“Me too.” She yawned and added softly, “Quack. Quack.”
It was their little joke. Prior to knowing Mickey, Marjorie had thought all psychics were quacks. But now she knew better. The ironic thing was that at the time he met her, his abilities had been raw and puny. It had been Marjorie who had encouraged him to explore and develop them.
Now Mickey believed he was supposed to use his extra sensory “powers” to help others. People did outrageous things to each other and afterwards changed the facts to suit themselves. But he'd had enough experiences to know that whatever the secret, the distortion, or the lie, the event was witnessed by something not fully understood. It was recorded in what used to be called the ethers, and when the time was right, that recording could be relayed back, usually in pieces, to people like him who could detect it. And when that happened, there was the possibility that a wrong could be righted or a destiny changed.
Mickey knew he was supposed to help Casia, but he needed more information. He needed direction. If the information came to him in a disjointed nightmare, so be it.
His body relaxed. Casia was all right, for now anyway. He drifted off to sleep and began to dream again.
He heard an organ playing an old fashioned hymn and this time he knew he was seated in a church. The lights dimmed, the hymn changed to a full orchestra sound. Now he was in a theater. On stage came a line of dancing men wearing tuxedos and top hats, clutching canes. They kicked their legs in unison with all the finesse of the New York City Rockettes.
The canes morphed into frightening snakes and the men began to fight with the lengthy reptiles. Each snake slithered around its partner, wrapping itself tighter and tighter, until the face of each dancer began to bulge.
A pair of binoculars appeared in Mickey's hands and he lifted them to his eyes. Now he could see that all of the men had the face of Wally Cleaver. Mickey lowered the glasses. The snakes lay dead on the stage and the men no longer wore tuxedos. They were teenagers, the same teenager, Wally Cleaver, dressed in the attire of the fifties. The theme song from Leave It to Beaver began and a few seconds into it, Beaver's voice spoke. “Gee, Wally. Do you really like hanging around that girl? Won't the guys give you the business?”
The line of Wally Cleavers began to kick their legs again. The curtains caught fire and quickly the theater was ablaze. The smoke thickened and Mickey began to cough.
The first time the dream took place it was his wedding night. But Mickey awoke and had no idea how it played out. Now he was on his honeymoon in Maui and the dream came again. This time Mickey slept.
He was in a room, one so dark he couldn't see, and it was icy. Then the temperature changed. It went from cold to hot in an instant and Mickey felt beads of sweat on his forehead.
Where am I? What am I doing here? Am I sweating from the heat, or am I afraid?
Fear. I'm afraid.
His nostrils flared. There was smoke—biting, harsh and hot. He tried to see, but he couldn't. Where was the smoke coming from?
He should leave. Every fiber of his body wanted to. But he couldn't. There was something he had to accomplish. He moved forward, looking for the source of the smoke, and heard the crackle of distant flames. The smoke grew thicker, searing tissue as it moved into his lungs. He began to cough. Sweat soaked his clothes.
“Get out.”
A voice. Who's voice?
He couldn't tell if it was male or female.
“You can't save her.”
Her? He thought of Casia. Is that why I can't leave? I have to save Casia?
Mickey dropped to his knees and the coughing got worse. He had to keep going. He had to find her.
“Mickey.”
The fire wasn't where he was. He had time. He had to have time. He tried to call out Casia's name but choked instead. His eyes burned from the ash. A horrible smell filled the air.
“Mickey, wake up. You're choking.”
Mickey rolled from side to side, fingers at his throat.
“Mickey, wake up. You're having a bad dream.”
His eyes flew open. Marjorie was on one elbow, hand on his chest. He pushed himself erect and his coughing trailed. It was the dead of night and dark in their hotel suite. Mickey switched on the lamp next to the bed.
“I'm sorry I woke you.” He coughed once more, his throat raspy.
“That sounds bad.” She put a hand on his forehead. “You're burning up. You must be coming down with something. A doctor. We need to get you—”
Mickey took her hand before she could climb out of bed. “I don't need a doctor. I'm not sick.” He hated explaining things, even to Marjorie who would never question the reliability of what he had to say. It was just that sometimes the things Mickey felt seemed too fantastic even for him. “It's Casia.”
“Luce's friend?”
“At our wedding I had a vision. I saw her burn to death.”
Marjorie looked surprised.
“I didn't tell you because I wanted to be certain it was more than just one of those things, weird but not necessarily meaningful.”
“Okay. But now?”
Mickey swallowed and rubbed his throat. “But now I've had this dream. I don't know where I was, in a building somewhere. It was on fire and very smoky. I couldn't see. Someone was telling me to get out, that I couldn't save her. By her, the voice meant Casia. And just before you woke me, I could smell flesh burning. I think we need to call Luce and see if everything's okay.”
“It's three hours later there than here. California’s still on daylight savings time. She might not answer.”
Mickey got out of bed and located his cell phone. He turned it on. “I know it's late, but that smell. It has me rattled.”
He punched in the number and Luce did answer.
“Why are you calling me?” He heard her yawn. “You should be making passionate love to my mother or be asleep.” Another yawn. “Is something wrong?”
“No, everything is fine here. I was wondering how things are on your end.”
“At two in the morning?”
Mickey grimaced. “Yes, at two in the morning.”
“Well, quiet, right now. I was asleep. Rehearsal went great.”
“Good, good. Anything else going on?”
“Mm, yeah. There was a murder on campus and Casia's boyfriend is a suspect. The police are looking for him.”
“Oh. How's Casia?”
“Worried.”
“But she's okay?”
“Oh, sure. In fact, it may be a good thing. He gets arrested she may figure out she deserves better.”
“So you think it’s a good thing.”
“Not the murder, the arrest. What's bothering you, Mickey? You sound funny.”
“Just had a feeling I should call. I'm glad you're fine. Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”
They hung up and Mickey got back into bed.
“Feel better?” Marjorie placed her hand on his forehead. “Temperature seems normal.”
“Yes. Much. Luce says Casia's okay.”
“Good.” Marjorie gave him a kiss and slid under the covers. Mickey turned off the light. He wished he could simply give Casia a call and say, “You know what? I'm psychic and I saw you burn to death in a vision and after that I had this dream where I tried to rescue you from a burning building. So I'm thinking you need to be careful. Don't play with matches. Don't go inside any buildings that could catch fire . . .” Yeah, wouldn't that go over well?
Marjorie's voice rose from the dark. “Go to sleep. We'll get through to Casia.”
Mickey smiled. She knew him so well. And to think, if it hadn't been for that magazine story, they never would have met. His gaze drifted to her. And, if he hadn't found the courage to ask her to dinner months later, they wouldn't be married now.
Marjorie turned in the bed and snuggled next to him.
“Thinking about us?” she asked groggily.
He smiled. Marjorie claimed not to have a sixth sense.
“I'm thinking about us.”
“Me too.” She yawned and added softly, “Quack. Quack.”
It was their little joke. Prior to knowing Mickey, Marjorie had thought all psychics were quacks. But now she knew better. The ironic thing was that at the time he met her, his abilities had been raw and puny. It had been Marjorie who had encouraged him to explore and develop them.
Now Mickey believed he was supposed to use his extra sensory “powers” to help others. People did outrageous things to each other and afterwards changed the facts to suit themselves. But he'd had enough experiences to know that whatever the secret, the distortion, or the lie, the event was witnessed by something not fully understood. It was recorded in what used to be called the ethers, and when the time was right, that recording could be relayed back, usually in pieces, to people like him who could detect it. And when that happened, there was the possibility that a wrong could be righted or a destiny changed.
Mickey knew he was supposed to help Casia, but he needed more information. He needed direction. If the information came to him in a disjointed nightmare, so be it.
His body relaxed. Casia was all right, for now anyway. He drifted off to sleep and began to dream again.
He heard an organ playing an old fashioned hymn and this time he knew he was seated in a church. The lights dimmed, the hymn changed to a full orchestra sound. Now he was in a theater. On stage came a line of dancing men wearing tuxedos and top hats, clutching canes. They kicked their legs in unison with all the finesse of the New York City Rockettes.
The canes morphed into frightening snakes and the men began to fight with the lengthy reptiles. Each snake slithered around its partner, wrapping itself tighter and tighter, until the face of each dancer began to bulge.
A pair of binoculars appeared in Mickey's hands and he lifted them to his eyes. Now he could see that all of the men had the face of Wally Cleaver. Mickey lowered the glasses. The snakes lay dead on the stage and the men no longer wore tuxedos. They were teenagers, the same teenager, Wally Cleaver, dressed in the attire of the fifties. The theme song from Leave It to Beaver began and a few seconds into it, Beaver's voice spoke. “Gee, Wally. Do you really like hanging around that girl? Won't the guys give you the business?”
The line of Wally Cleavers began to kick their legs again. The curtains caught fire and quickly the theater was ablaze. The smoke thickened and Mickey began to cough.
