Is time creeping along or flying by as Release Day approaches for That the Dead May Rest? Can it somehow be doing both at once?
In any case, here's another excerpt, this time from Chapter 2.
To set the stage: a few people have shown up in the afterlife with alarming tales to tell. Those who welcome new arrivals have started to gently question them about how they died. Millie, asking the question this time, has already heard the horrifying news that her own body had come out of its grave and killed someone.
(Trigger warning: suicide.)
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Then, one evening, came a man who responded as if her question had been an electric shock. He went rigid, his eyes wide and his jaw clenched. Millie sat quietly, trying to project reassurance, and he slowly relaxed, but all the way into a slump. Putting his head in his hands, he mumbled something she couldn’t hear. He must have realized it, because he lifted his head and said in a flat, hopeless tone, “I expected this. I assume I won’t be allowed to stay. Where will you send me?” The monotone changed to a high, panicked note as he added, “Is it hell? Is there a hell? Please, can I appeal somehow?” He was crying now. “Is there some way to ask for mercy?”
Millie hurried to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t be frightened. I don’t think there’s anything like hell. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I — we’re asking everyone this question now, for a reason that has nothing to do with you.” Or so she hoped. She could only hope. “Please tell me, and then I’ll find the best way to help you.”
The man’s sobs subsided, and he took a deep, shaky breath. It reminded her to wonder, as she often had, why they still breathed, and ate, and did so many things they had done in life, but not the more unpleasant ones. But she needed to concentrate on the shaken man in the chair, who was (perhaps unconsciously) now gripping the sides of the chair as he forced out the words, “I killed myself. Committed suicide.”
That would mean counseling from someone who knew much more than she did. But now that the man had brought himself to make what he obviously saw as a confession, she should do more than simply pass him along. Using both hands now to gently massage his shoulders, she asked in as soothing a tone as she could, “Do you want to tell me what was happening to you, to bring you to that point?”
It might have been a mistake. He started sobbing again, his shoulders bowing and shaking under her hands. “It was — it was what — my wife, my wife, I saw what happened, my wife, and I couldn’t stop it, I tried, but I was too late, she was already — already — all torn and bloody, blood everywhere, and she’d been screaming and then moaning, and then nothing . . . she was like a torn, bloody blanket on the ground, and the thing ran off into the woods, it crashed through the trees and was gone, and my wife was, she was . . . .”
Millie wanted to do some moaning herself. She let go of the man’s shoulders for fear of gripping them too hard. She could have asked what the creature looked like, whether it looked human, or like anyone in particular. But it would be kinder not to press him for details, not yet. And she couldn’t bear to think what he might answer.
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Today's preorder links go to Barnes & Noble, for both the ebook and the paperback, and Amazon. If you have a local B&N store, they may well be able to order the paperback for you. If not, you can order it online and pick it up at the store. There's a lovely excuse to spend some time book-browsing!
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