The Haunting of Chatham Hollow

Let’s all welcome Mae Clair to Entertaining Stories today. She’s here to tell us about her latest release, The Haunting of Chatham Hollow.

Mae is one of my oldest and dearest author friends. I freely recommend anything she writes. We started Story Empire together, and I soon met Staci Troilo, Mae’s partner in this project.

I’ve also read a ton of Staci’s work, and recommend her stories without any reservations. It’s Mae who showed up today, so let’s all make her feel welcome. Don’t forget to use those sharing buttons while you’re here. I know both Staci and Mae have done it for many of you.

PS: I already have my copy preordered and could be reading it by the time this goes live. Can’t miss with these two teaming up.

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Craig, thank you so much for hosting me today. I’m delighted to be here with you and your readers to share The Haunting of Chatham Hollow. I co-authored this novel with Staci Troilo, and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. It was amazing to work with a co-author, especially someone as talented as Staci. She and I found we work great together, so who knows—maybe another down the road.

For now, we hope others will enjoy our supernatural mystery which includes dual timelines, ghostly happenings, a town curse, murder, and rumors of buried gold. During our short promo tour, you’ll meet several characters who populate the book. Today, I’d like to introduce Benedict Fletcher, from the 1888 timeline. Spiritualism is a key thread in the book, so Staci and I thought we’d have each character sit down with a medium as a way of introduction.

Let’s listen in.

SPIRTUALIST: I feel a little awkward, given you’re a spiritualist yourself, Mr. Fletcher. Do you really want me to proceed with a reading?

BENEDICT: (waving aside the offer): We can skip that. Chatham Hollow already has one too many mediums as it is.

SPIRTUALIST: I take it you’re referring to Victor Rowe?

BENEDICT: Don’t you mean the Great Victor Rowe? (rolls eyes) The man has a reputation longer than a locomotive.

SPIRTUALIST: Well… he is endorsed by the Society of Psychical Research, something not easily accomplished.

BENEDICT: Only because the SPR hasn’t investigated him thoroughly enough.

SPIRTUALIST: Is that why you’ve made it your mission to upstage him? You’ve only recently arrived in Chatham Hollow yet have made quite a name for yourself. I’ve heard even Irene Chatham sings your praises.

BENEDICT: (straightening his cinnamon-colored cravat) The mayor’s wife recognizes talent when she sees it. I had the pleasure of summoning the dear woman’s deceased mother, providing her the comfort so many crave when they lose a loved one.

SPIRTUALIST: You did the same for her sister, Dorinda—summoning her husband from beyond the Veil.

BENEDICT: Yes, yes. (steepling his fingers with a solemn nod) She was most appreciative.

SPIRTUALIST: Enough to suggest you contact Ward Chatham at the Founder’s Day Festival?

BENEDICT: It was more about the SPR.Dorinda is acquainted with two members, and thought if they saw me conduct a séance, they might endorse me. You understand how important that is.

SPIRTUALIST: Of course.But there are also rumors of an underlying motive—hoping to discover where Ward Chatham hid his gold.

BENEDICT: Chatham’s gold—and his curse—is the stuff of legend. It’s fool’s gold if you ask me.

SPIRTUALIST: Really? Then the treasurehas nothing to do with why you came here from St. Louis?

BENEDICT: I came for one reason only—to build a reputation. (he smiles sharply) And discredit Victor Rowe in the process.

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BLURB:
One founding father.
One deathbed curse.
A town haunted for generations.

Ward Chatham, founder of Chatham Hollow, is infamous for two things—hidden treasure and a curse upon anyone bold enough to seek it. Since his passing in 1793, no one has discovered his riches, though his legend has only grown stronger.

In 1888, charlatan Benedict Fletcher holds a séance to determine the location of Chatham’s fortune. It’s all a hoax so he can search for the gold, but he doesn’t count on two things—Victor Rowe, a true spiritualist who sees through his ruse, and Chatham’s ghost wreaking havoc on the town.

More than a century later, the citizens of the Hollow gather for the annual Founder’s Day celebration. A paranormal research team intends to film a special at Chatham Manor, where the original séance will be reenacted. Reporter and skeptic Aiden Hale resents being assigned the story, but even he can’t deny the sudden outbreak of strange happenings. When he sets out to discover who or what is threatening the Hollow—supernatural or not— his investigation uncovers decades-old conflicts, bitter rivalries, and ruthless murders.

This time, solving the mystery isn’t about meeting his deadline. It’s about not ending up dead.

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Thanks again for hosting me today, Craig. It was a pleasure to drop by—along with my unnamed spiritualist and Benedict Fletcher. (Please excuse Benedict. He can be quite the chameleon). I invite your readers to pick up a copy of The Haunting of Chatham Hollow at the link below. Staci and I both appreciate the support and wish everyone happy reading!

PURCHASE LINK

Connect with Mae Clair at BOOKBUB and the following haunts:

Amazon| BookBub| Newsletter Sign-Up
Website | Blog| Twitter| Goodreads| All Social Media

Connect with Staci Troilo at the following haunts:

Website | Blog | Social Media | Newsletter
Amazon | BookBub | Goodreads

Out my window again

I took this picture at work today. Looks like the thaw, combined with the rain brought us another piece of junk. I hate it when people drop things in our waterways. Still, one man’s junk is another man’s story prompt.

Fishing was lousy. Seven turns of the glass at least, and it rained the whole time. The scarf I used to cover my head was soaked before I cast out my first shrimp. One sand dab wouldn’t feed my sisters, let alone me and ma. Logs drifted past on their way to the bay, and I imagined the fish hid under them to get out of the rain. Then one came by that didn’t float right. It rode low in the water, and barely broke the surface. It had square corners too.

It rode until it lodged in the sand. I dropped my stringer and pole on the shore and ran after it. Maybe someone tipped a wagon upriver, and dumped something valuable in the water. Whatever it was broke loose and drifted again, but not far. The snag of a tree root grabbed it and anchored it until I could catch up.

Its lid was gone by now, and I looked inside. Something looked back.

A skull, not bleached and white like a proper skull, but muddy and covered with sand from upstream somewhere. I approached on tip toes. I’m not superstitious, mind you, but this isn’t something a kid finds everyday.

It was a casket. Nothing fancy, just a wooden box, and the person inside not more than a skeleton but for a few bits and pieces. Those pieces were covered with crabs, and none of ’em were big enough to cook. I looked at the poor skull, and it wore a big tricorn hat. The head rolled toward the sea, and revealed the fellow’s broken neck bones. “So it’s the sea you want, is it?”

I flipped the crabs into the bay. Sometimes people gets buried with coins and such. He didn’t need ’em, and my ma could sure use ’em. I patted down his rags, and found iron shackles around his wrists. I poked and prodded, but turned up nowt.

I looked around his eye holes, ’cause sometimes that’s where the coins goes, but there weren’t any. His hat was oily and stiff, but nothing was tucked inside. I tossed it on the shore. He wore better leather boots than I did, and be damned I decided to take ’em.

They were tall and fine, and turned over at the knee to make a large cuff. I tossed ’em beside the hat, and decided to push the box toward the sea. Better the sea than  another hole in the ground for this one. When the water reached my belly, I let him go. He rode higher in the waves somehow, like a small boat. Almost like he appreciated me setting him on his way.

I wrung the hat out first, and it weren’t in bad shape. Maybe after it dried, I could make some use of it. I poured another crab out of the first boot, and knocked the boot against a rock to make sure there wasn’t any more.

A couple of bones poured out of the second one. Could be I tugged too hard getting it off, but these boots were mine now, by right of salvage. At least that’s what I told myself. I reached inside to make sure there weren’t more pieces. I pulled out a soaked piece of parchment.

The parchment had some kind of writing on it, but it made no sense to me. There was a drawing of the local area too. I recognized the old West Road, and Barrow Point, but not much more. That and a big drawing of a skull, with an X to mark something north of Barrow Point. Maybe ma could read it after it dries out some. She used to know the letters, and maybe she could remember some of ’em. Might be it’d tell who he was, and I could make him a little marker of some kind.

***

Okay, so my favorite Superbowl ad was the one for the new pirate movie. Somebody needs to come haul their junk out of the stream.