Category: News from Caridad

My friend, Irene Peterson, is kind of an expert on psychic things. You can read more about her and her studies of the paranormal, by clicking here to visit the British Institute of Paranormal Studies also known as BIPS.

Now, before we pull your leg too much, BIPS is Irene’s creation and can be found in one of her Works In Progress – KISS MY ECTOPLASM. But be sure to check out her latest novel, KISSES TO GO.

As for Irene’s psychic abilities? Well, why don’t you try Irene’s tips for testing your psychic abilities.

Are you a sender or receiver or both?

• According to the kindly folk at BIPS, the British Institute for Paranormal Studies, telepathy is the ability to project one’s thoughts or receive thoughts from another individual, even at great distances.

Do you possess telepathic abilities?
Do you “hear” things other people are saying when they haven’t said a word? Better yet, do you think you need to call your friend in California and when you do, she says, “I need to talk to you, I’m so upset”?

• Oh, telepathy is not “hearing in your mind” your mother’s rant about not ever spending time with her or your significant other’s groans over watching yet another movie on Lifetime, but getting actual words or pictures in your mind.

Here’s a simple method of detecting telepathy…be it sender or receiver, and also a nifty game to play at parties when everyone is sober.

• You will need seven small index cards, plain, unmarked on the back side, with no tears, marks, or folds to distinguish any card whatsoever.

  On the back of one card only, lightly draw a small X.

  Then, the person who is going to try to “send” should place the cards blank side down on a flat surface, being careful to remember the position of the card with the X, but telling no one. The person who is to be the “sender” must give absolutely no indication, facial or otherwise, while the experiment is going on. (Might as well just point to the card if you’re going to grunt or squint or do something dramatic when you attempt to send.)

  The “receiver” is then to slowly run one hand over the backs of the cards, approximately an inch above the surface.

  When the “receiver’s” hand is above the X card, the “sender” should think something like “this is it” or “here” or just think of a weight pressing down on the “receiver’s” hand.

  There are times when an especially sensitive “receiver” will actually feel his/her hand bounce down on top of the X card, as if a weight had pressed upon it.

  Concentration is key to “sending”. The sender can’t be distracted by lots of noise or onlookers and the receiver should sincerely be intent on picking up telepathic messages.

  A really good team will have a strong sender and an equally strong receiver. But, alas, not everyone is sensitive. Not everyone can send or receive anything. It’s a gift, like being good in art or a good singer, and equally as hard to develop if the gift isn’t there.

  It may be latent, however, so trying this method can’t hurt.

And remember, with gifts like these, it is often necessary to learn how to turn them off when the time comes, but that’s another lesson. Good luck!

Well, good luck and thanks to Irene for this info!

TODAY’S THE DAY, Tuesday the 26th and not Wednesday, the 26th hence why it’s a Topsy Turvy Tuesday and Wicked Wednesday combined! Since I got the dates wrong, we will be taking comments and having the contest for these next two days so more time for you to win!

Please give a big WELCOME to Lisa Jackson who is providing us with an excerpt from her latest LEFT TO DIE. I’ll be picking TWO-Two-two lucky winners to receive a copy of LEFT TO DIE, Lisa Jackson T-Shirt and notepad from everyone who leaves a comment on the blog before midnight EST on Wednesday, August 27th. The two lucky winners will also receive a box of books and a CALLING vampire novel t-shirt.

Plus — if you’re one of the first 25 who leaves the name of my next release (hint — it’s in December) as part of their blog comment, you will also get an autographed copy of HOLIDAY WITH A VAMPIRE. I will contact you for a postal address if you’re one of the 25 lucky HOLIDAY winners.

Without further ado . . . here’s your free excerpt from Lisa Jackson! Please note this is for Mature Audiences only.

Naked, I stand at the window.
Alone.
Waiting.
While sand slips oh, so slowly through the hour glass.
The coming night was near, shadows playing darkly. A hollow wind, keening and savage, cuts through the canyons with the promise of death upon its breath. I hear its plaintive cry from deep in the cabin.
It wants me, I thought. It wants her.
It’s as hungry as I am.
Good!
Feeling the ache, the low, insistent pulse, I peer through the window panes glazed in ice, frosted with blowing snow.
Naked branches of the lonely trees rattle and dance, like skeletal arms raised in supplication to the heavens.
As if God were interested.
I feel the urge to step outside, the tug of the cold tempting me to languish in the caress of frigid gusts upon my bare skin.
But it is too soon.
I’m not going to let myself fall victim to that easy enticement. The timing just isn’t right. Not yet.
I have to be patient.
Because she is coming.
Unfailingly and without any inkling as to her fate, she is drawing near. I feel it.
And everything has to be perfect.
“Come on,” I whisper quietly and feel that sensual twitch deep inside at the thought of her: lightly tanned skin, some freckles, wide hazel eyes and untamed hair a deep brown that shines red in the fire-light. “Come the fuck on.”
The knowledge that she will soon appear causes my blood to race, my mind to fire with images of what is to come. I can almost taste her, feel the texture of her skin as she quivers at my touch. In my mind’s eye I watch her pupils dilate until her eyes are nearly black with fear and a dark, unwelcome desire.
Oh, she will want me.
She will beg for more of me.
And I’ll give her what she wants: what she fears.
Her last conscious thoughts will be of me.
But not yet . . . I have to hold back.
Tamping down those vibrant, exhilarating fantasies, I decide to savor them later. When the timing is right.
With one last glance at the window, I walk to the table near the fire, sit in the smooth wooden chair and feel the varnish against my bare skin. When my body is unfettered by clothes my mind is sharper. Clearer.
I study my maps carefully. Using a magnifying glass, charting my course. The worn, marked pages are spread upon the plank table near the kerosene lantern glowing softly. Scattered upon the scarred planks are the astrological charts, birth certificates and recent clippings of the deaths that no one will ever trace to me. In the articles those beautiful releases of souls are described as brutal slayings, the work of a psychopath.
Reporters, like the police, are idiots.
I can’t help but smile at all their wasted efforts.
The authorities are morons.
Cretins.
Fools who are so easily toyed with.
Burning wood crackled in the grate, anxious flames devouring the mossy chunks of oak and pine, the scent of wood smoke heavy in my nostrils as I reread the stories about the “victims”, tales that have been carefully construed by the stupid cops to ensure that no details they want to keep from the public have slipped into the articles. They have worked diligently to make certain a few clues as to what really happened up on the ridge won’t be available to the general populace for fear a nutcase will claim to be the killer.
Then, the short-staffed Sheriff’s Department will have to sort it all out and spend valuable hours dealing with the fraud. Officers will have to expose him or her to be just some whack job trying to get his or her fifteen minutes of fame or infamy. The department will lose a lot of time uncovering the false murderer, a lunatic pretender who in no way can understand the divinity nor the complexity of the painstakingly executed sacrifices.
Sorry, imbeciles.
You’ll have to find some other killer to emulate.
“Killer.” The word tastes bitter. As did “criminal” or “psycho”. Because what I do isn’t a crime, not just a “killing”, not some psychotic whim, but a necessity . . . a calling. However those who are unenlightened will never understand. What I’ve done, what I will do again, is misunderstood.
So be it.
A window rattles against a gust of wind and I feel a sudden chill slithering down my spine. Glancing up from my work to the icy panes, I see fluttering flakes of snow in the steely day beyond.
Feeling the storm seeping through the cracks in the walls, the cold air kissing my skin, I envision her again.
Beautiful bitch.
Soon you will be mine.
God and the Fates are on my side.
I lick my lips as a thrill steals through my bloodstream. Turning back to the table, I see her picture. In black and white, the surroundings out of focus, her features clear and crisp.
In the glossy photograph, she appears happy, though, of course, her smile is a frail facade. She looks almost flirtatious.
A lie.
As I stare deeply into her eyes, I detect a shadow, a small frisson of darkness that betrays her fear.
In that fragile moment when the camera captures her, she senses that her life is far from what it seems.
And yet she can’t possibly comprehend the truth. Little does she know what is about to happen; that her fate
has already been sealed, that she will soon join the others . . .
Carefully I read the charts once more. The stars are in the right position, the groundwork has been done and December with its cold, stinging kiss will soon be here.
As will she.
She will arrive before the turn of the calendar’s page.
Closing my eyes I imagine our meeting.
Her chilled flesh will press against mine. Her skin will have the salty taste of fear, her cheeks even more so with the tracks of tears.
A frisson of expectation sizzles through my blood.
I glance down at the photograph again.
So clear.
So sharp.
So ready.
“Soon,” I whisper, not saying her name aloud, not wanting to hear it echo through the rafters. “Very soon.”
My groin tightens in expectancy.
Winter and Death are about to meet.