Dance With the Dead: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novella (Gwen's Ghosts Book 1)

DANCE WITH THE DEAD Gwen’s Ghosts #1 by H.P. MALLORY & J.R. RAIN Gwen’s Ghosts Dance with the Dead Dead and Gone Dead of Night Other Books by H.P. Mallory PARANORMAL WOMEN’S FICTION: Haven Hollow Midlife Spirits Misty Hollow Trailer Park Vampire Midlife Mermaid PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Witch & Warlock Vampire Esquire Ever Dark Academy FANTASY ROMANCE: Dark Destinies Gates of the Underworld Lily Harper Dulcie O’Neil PARANORMAL REVERSE HAREM: My Five Kings Happily Never After SCI-FI ROMANCE: The Alaskan Detective TRILOGIES: Dragon’s Birthright Crown Of Lies The Dark Circus Chasing Demons Dungeon Raider Here to There Arctic Wolves Wolves of Valhalla Lucy Westenra Other Books by J.R. Rain VAMPIRE FOR HIRE Moon Dance Vampire Moon American Vampire Moon Child Christmas Moon (novella) Vampire Dawn Vampire Games Moon Island Moon River Vampire Sun Moon Dragon Moon Shadow Vampire Fire Midnight Moon Moon Angel Vampire Sire Moon Master Dead Moon Lost Moon Vampire Destiny Infinite Moon Vampire Empress Moon Elder Wicked Moon Winter Moon Sasquatch Moon Wild Moon Moon Magic Moon World Vampire Deep (coming soon) SAMANTHA MOON ADVENTURES Banshee Moon Moon Monster Moon Ripper Witch Moon Moon Goddess Moon Blaze Golem Moon Moon Maidens SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES Moon Bayou Blood Moon Parallel Moon SAMANTHA MOON ORIGINS New Moon Rising Moon Mourning Haunted Moon Dance With the Dead Published by Rain Press Copyright © 2023 by J.R. Rain & H.P. Mallory All rights reserved. Ebook Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Reading Sample: The Good Daughter About H.P. Mallory About J.R. Rain Dance With the Dead Chapter One Petra and Me The vacation I took to England’s West Country was one of my best and earliest memories. I was eight or so at the time and it was my first time on a plane, my first time out of the country and the first time I remember leaving New York and its environs. For a child who’d known nothing but the city and its suburbs, the rolling fields and majestic hills of Somerset and Wiltshire (our American pronunciation of which greatly amused the locals) was a fantasy landscape, like the Shire from The Lord of the Rings. My parents and I stayed in a bed and breakfast in a village called Morley-on-Avon, through which the river lazily snaked. It was a wonderland that imprinted itself on my young mind and I swore I would someday return. But the trip was mostly memorable because it was the location where Petra became my constant companion, the ‘imaginary friend’ about whom my parents smiled quietly and for whom they even set a place at the table (as recommended by various parenting guides on the subject of ‘invisible friends’). Of course, that was before I patiently explained that Petra didn’t need to eat. The day I met Petra is still etched in my mind in such vivid detail, it feels as if it were only yesterday. “Petra Shearwater,” the tour guide had announced, an almost circular man with a moustache that appeared to be trying to take over his face. He was dressed in a red, velvet outfit that looked as if it was meant to mimic something Henry VIII would have worn, though the guide’s was a cheap imitation. I was fairly sure it was mustard that was staining the ruff around his neck. While the guide’s outward appearance was bland (with the notable exception of his monstrous moustache), he seemed to make up for that blandness with the shrillness of his voice and the theatrical waving of his arms. He looked like a man about to take off for the clouds. “It was within this house, or just outside it, that she died and some say, she still haunts it.” He pointed at the dirt patch on which he stood and then did a strange little jig, as if Petra were reaching up from her grave to tickle the undersides of his feet. “On this very spot here, that I’m currently standing upon.” We were standing in the mighty shadow of one of the great stately homes of the county. Not the biggest or most expensive that Britain had to offer (not quite Downton Abbey scale) but an impressive ‘country pile’ never the less. It was called Chambon Hall. “Though, of course, it only got that name in the sixties when a pair of monied hippies,” the guide raised his eyebrows to show what he thought of said monied hippies, “Lucius and Delphine Chambon—better known as ‘Thor’ and ‘Feather’ to their circle of unwashed ragamuffins—bought it up for a song after the de Crecy family, who had lived on this site since the fifteenth century, went broke following bad investments. On the ponies,” he added with a wink and then did a little twirl that seemed to surprise all those in attendance. “But back to Petra,” the guide continued. “She didn’t live in Chambon Hall, but she was a guest of the de Crecy family, from back when they were at their peak,” the guide went on, nodding at everyone in turn. “This was in the late nineteenth century, mind you. The Victorian era.” The guide cleared his throat and his voice rang out even louder. “Petra was invited to stay because young Roger de Crecy,” at which point the guide winked at my parents and continued, “Roger by name and Roger by nature—saving your daughter’s presence, aye?” My parents nodded uncertainly, and the guide continued on. “Roger had taken a fancy to Petra, who was renowned as a bit of a looker—which was perhaps exactly what had appealed to Roger. So, Petra was invited to stay and quite quickly into her stay, she died, some say by mysterious circumstances,” (accompanied by much wiggling of fingers). “She fell to her death, right here on this here