Patty Blount's Blog

Readers, I am delighted and honored to announce that my first self-published novel, THE SMELL OF SMOKE AND ASH, is a 2025 NERFA Award Winner - Speculative.

I hope you'll give my ghost story a chance. It's a story about grief and how no force on earth is strong enough to kill love -- not even Death.

CHAPTER ONE
Elle

 

JUST FIVE MORE days until December 25th.

I. Couldn’t. Wait.

Not for Christmas. For my birthday.

In exactly five days, I would be eighteen years old. An adult. My life could finally begin on my terms. Tingles of anticipation zipped along my skin.

Mom and I were in the mall with my best friend Crystal, which was a minor miracle. I’d made a deal with Mom back in November. I’d asked that in honor of my eighteenth birthday, could we scale wa-a-a-ay back on Christmas this year and she’d agreed.

I still couldn’t believe it.

To say my mom loved Christmas was a Santa-sized understatement. As soon as the weather turned cool, she got this gleam in her eye. She loved Christmas the way Clark W. Griswold, our cat, loved laser pointers and catnip. Mom started playing Christmas music the day after Halloween, put up a tree in every room of our house, baked a gazillion cookies, forced us to spend hours taking the perfect photo, and has probably seen every Hallmark holiday movie ever produced.

When Crystal called and invited me shopping with her to find the perfect outfit for the big birthday event I’d planned, Mom actually agreed to drive us. We’d been on our way to the boutique across the street from the mall when Mom decided to pop in and pick up a gift on my little brother’s wish list. Pax wanted the latest Legend of Zelda game and if I didn’t I love my little brother so much, I’d never be near the mall this close to Christmas, let alone in one.

Malls were the tenth circle of hell.

The line just to get into the game store snaked around the food court, where the line to see Santa Claus also happened to be. We shuffled our way along a rope queue that weaved in and around mall obstacles like huge plants, waste bins, and the occasional bench, which people lunged for like they were playing a game of musical chairs. Every few seconds, a ho ho ho boomed across the space, followed by the terrified shrieks of children.

Like I said, tenth circle of hell.

“I wanna go home,” came the whine of tired little boy we’d passed a few times now as our respective lines moved.

“If we go home now, you won’t get to see Santa and tell him your Christmas wish,” his mom said.

“I don’t care. I hate Christmas.”

Without thinking, I blurted, “Me, too.”

Okay, you’re judging me, I can tell.

In my defense, we’d been on this line for what felt like months and it just sort of slipped out. Plus, I hated Christmas, too. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a kindred spirit?

In a mall?

At this time of year?

He looked up at me with shock and, I like to think, a little awe. “You do?”

“Yep.”

His mother, on the other hand, looked at me like I’d just oozed out of a rotting Easter egg someone only now just found. Mom gave me The Look that said, “Shut. Up. This. Minute.” Crystal’s dark eyes popped wide and she frantically shook her head.

“You don’t really hate Christmas, honey. You’re just tired,” his mom assured him, glaring holes through me.

“How come you hate Christmas?” the boy asked me.

Mom still glared at me, Crystal still shook her head, so I bit my lip and turned away. A few seconds later, the lines moved. We moved left. The little boy and his mom moved right. I breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Noelle,” Mom said. “I have to find the rest room. Stay on this line,” she ordered and stepped over the rope barricade. “Oh, and take all this for me, will you?” She shoved her shopping bag, her coat, and the mega-cup of soda she’d been drinking into my hands and disappeared into the crowd.

“Elle, are you crazy?” Crystal whispered the second Mom disappeared.

“It just slipped out!”

“Well, tighten your grip! My parents are gonna flip out if your birthday party is canceled because you’re grounded. They moved all our holiday plans around so I could be here for it.”

Guilt flared.

Crystal was right.

My mom had a hair trigger where Christmas was concerned and I couldn’t risk her cancelling all the birthday plans. On Christmas Day — excuse me, on my birthday, (OMG, even I do it!) we’re going to New York City to see a special exhibit at a museum that’s normally closed for the holiday. After that, we’re going out to dinner. My birthdays were typically lost among the holiday bustle so I was insanely excited about this and counting the days.

“Noelle, huh?”

At the sound of my name, my gaze snapped to the kind face of an older woman in the Santa line, clutching the hand of a small girl.

“With a Christmas name, I imagine you have a Christmas birthday,” she commented with a wry look that made me think she understood.

“I do,” I admitted, hope flaring like the Christmas star itself.

“Christmas birthday? That’s so cool.” A guy wearing an elf hat said from behind me, in the game store line. “You get double the presents.”

I could only shake my head. Christmas birthdays sucked. Christmas always came first. Even in the name, Christmas came first. Nobody ever calls it Birthday Christmas, amirite? It was sort of a Schrödinger’s Cat situation. People just couldn’t seem to wrap their minds around the paradox that it was both Christmas and my birthday, so you got the people who handed you a gift with the warning, “That’s for Christmas and your birthday” but was it really?

No.

They simply bought a Christmas present and said that to lower your expectations so you wouldn’t be disappointed.

I was, in fact, disappointed. Repeatedly.

Those presents were always the ones that were something to hang on a tree.

Then, there were those who assured you they didn’t forget your birthday and would make it up to you but they were just so broke from Christmas, but did they ever really?

Also no, because the truth was, they did forget.

It’s not like I expected diamond tennis bracelets and new cars. It wasn’t about the gifts at all, which was an impossible point to make because every time the topic came up, I got called spoiled or entitled. It was the sentiment—or more accurately, the complete lack of it that bothered me. I wanted the day of my birth to matter.

Was that really so wrong?

“People who hate Christmas haven’t figured out that the true spirit of Christmas comes from the giving, not the receiving,” the woman said.

Well, she wasn’t a grandmotherly type at all. She was a disapproving Sunday school teacher type.

I opened my mouth to tell her what I thought about Christmas spirit but Crystal elbowed me in the ribs.

Right. Deep breath. Do not ruin this.

A ripple zipped along both lines as people offered their assessments. Someone called me spoiled. Another said entitled. Tears burned my eyes, but Crystal had begged me to stay quiet, so I did.

I sighed. We’d been on this line for eons and the boutique was going to close before Crystal and I found our cute outfits and now, people on two separate lines were plotting my demise. Where was Mom? I scanned the crowd for her but instead of Mom’s dark head, I spotted a familiar blond one.

No.

Please, God, not now.

Could you maybe smite me later, just this once?

But God was apparently as displeased with me as the people on line. My arch-rival, my nemesis, my sworn enemy locked on target and approached, that gleam in her eyes pure, undisguised joy when she realized I was trapped on this line and probably would be for the rest of my natural life.

“Noelle,” she said on a sneer, blue eyes skimming up and down my body.

“Ellery.” I matched her tone for tone, and skimmed my eyes up and down her body. Okay, that hunter green coat looked amazing on her, and her leather boots put my grungy Uggs to shame. Dammit.

“I suppose you’re here for the new Zelda game.” She held up her bag with a happy grin. “I sure hope they have enough by the time you reach the end of the line.” She cocked her head and studied me. “I could sell you this one…if you’re willing to pay.”

Oh, I was not going there with her. “Well, actually, I’m here for the new Star Wars game, but thanks anyway.” My phone vibrated. I took it out, hoping Ellery would take the hint and disappear. A text from my mom waited.

Mom: Meet me at the exit! Plans changed!

“Crystal, could you hold this?” I handed her Mom’s beverage cup. “My mom wants us to meet her at the exit.”

“Wait, what? Now? After standing here since dinosaurs roamed the planet? Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m texting now.” With Crystal reading over my shoulder, I texted Mom.

Elle: We just got to the last turn in the rope line. If we wait maybe 15 more minutes, we’ll get Pax’s game.

Mom: Noelle, NOW. Your brother brought home his roommate. I have a TON to do to prep for his stay.

Elle: But the boutique closes at 7:30

Mom: We’ll go some other time. I have to shop and clean and pick up another tree and register him.

Register him?

My blood froze in my veins.

No. No, no, no, no.

This was bad.

Tears stung my eyes. Register him could only mean one thing.

“Aw, looks like no game for you. Too bad,” Ellery smiled a self-satisfied smirk. “Should have gotten here earlier. Oh, well. See you.”

As she disappeared into the crowd, the guy in the elf hat said, “Wait, are they out of Zelda games? Oh my God! They ran out of Zeldas!” With a curse, he left the line.

“Wait, no!” I hastily wiped my eyes. “She’s just taunting me. Don’t listen to her!”

But my reassurances came too late. He’d been swallowed up by the Christmas crowd, too. Several more people left the line after the rumbling about no more copies made it to them.

A store employee headed over to us. “Folks, we have about 500 copies of Zelda left in stock. Don’t leave the line.”

“But that girl said there were no more games!” A woman said, shooting me a nasty glare.

I lifted my hands in surrender. “I never said a word. It was her—“ I pointed at Ellery but she was long gone.

“She said it to cut the line!”

“But I’ve been waiting in this line for hours! And I wasn’t the one who said it!” I protested, but no one heard me.

“She hates Christmas.” The voice in the Santa line belonged to the mother of the little boy who also hated Christmas.

The entire assembly of people in both lines gasped in unison at that. People stared and glared. One guy even snapped a picture. Apparently, I was on my way to realizing my lifelong dream of becoming an internet meme.”

Yay.

Crystal tossed Mom’s beverage into the trash bin nearby and clutched my arm. “Come on, Elle. We’re outta here.”

“Crystal, you heard what happened! I never cut the line and I never said that.”

“I know, but the crowd looked like they were ready to start roasting you over an open fire so…” she trailed off. We’d reached the exit but Mom wasn’t here yet. “Elle, listen to me. I saw the texts and I know what you’re thinking but please don’t have a fit. Your birthday party hasn’t been cancelled. Your mom just wants Nick’s roommate to feel welcome. That’s all.”

“Okay. Yeah. You’re right.” I managed a tight grin. Mom hadn’t said anything about skipping the museum event. “But she did say she needed to register him, Crystal. You know what that means.”

Crystal’s mouth fell open.

Yep. She knew what it meant.

Those words sent a shiver down my spine. I’d actually prefer being slow-roasted to that. I shut my eyes and sent up a tiny prayer. Please God, just one year. Just this year. Please.

Every year, our town holds a Holiday Spirit Contest, which was an Olympics of sorts. The contest had various competitions that families may enter from best decor to best Christmas card. The family with the most points wins the award. The more events you enter, the better your odds of winning are. My parents were absolutely fanatical about this contest. In fact, I was pretty sure that’s why they even had Pax and Holly so many years after Nick and me. Two kids with Christmas names was cute, but four?

Now that was a commitment.

Once the Christmas twinkle appeared in my mother’s eye — which was typically when we entered the -ber months — nothing else mattered, a fact made painfully aware to me every year since the town began this award. Last year, poor Holly caught a stomach bug and Mom left me alone with her, holding a barf bucket, so she could still get to the cookie contest.

“Here she comes. Remember, stay calm.”

I nodded again. Mom jogged up to us, grabbed her jacket from me, and fished out her car keys.

“Mom, just go without us. Crystal and I can get ourselves home. We’ll head to the boutique—“

“No, no, I’ll need your help, Noelle. Nick said Quintin, his roommate, has never had a nice family Christmas, can you believe that?” She barreled over me. “I already contacted the awards people and they said it’s not too late to register him as a member of our team—”

My stomach plummeted to my feet and my heart cracked. “You promised me. You promised we’d skip the awards this year—“

“Elle,” Crystal warned.

“I never said we’d skip the competition, Noelle.” Mom quickly zipped up her jacket and slide her phone into a pocket. “I said we’d spend Christmas Day in the city, like you wanted.”

“You mean, my birthday.”

She waved a hand. “That’s what I said.”

Oh my God, could she be any more clueless? Temper surged deep inside me. “Mom, can you just drop us off across the street so all our time isn’t completely wasted?”

For the first time since she left us on the game store line, Mom remembered Crystal.

“Oh, Crystal, I’m sorry. Of course, I’ll drop you off, if you’re sure you can get home on your own?”

“Um, well, I guess I can call an Uber or…something so I don’t have to walk all the way home in the dark…”

Mom totally ignored the panic in Crystal’s voice but I couldn’t.

“Mom—“

“Noelle, enough. I need your help and that’s the end of it. Crystal’s a big girl and can buy an outfit without help, right?”

“Um. Actually,” Crystal began, her eyes darting from Mom to me and back again. “I really need to do this today, Mrs. Garland. My family has plans that we switched around for Noelle’s birthday. This is the only time I have to find that outfit. Please, Mrs. Garland. It shouldn’t take us more than half an hour.”

My jaw dropped. Crystal Yuet, who stood hardly even five feet tall, had just challenged Erica Garland. I turned to Mom, who was biting her lip and frowning and checking her phone.

“Okay. Fine. Half an hour.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garland. Thank you!” Crystal hugged Mom and turned to me with a huge grin on her face. I knew I should be grateful for my best friend’s Hail Mary play but the only thing I could feel at the moment was keen disappointment.

The Garland family Christmas would once again take precedence over my birthday.

 

The second we arrived home, Mom disappeared into the kitchen. Soon, the scents of vanilla, sugar, and gingerbread wafted through the house and my heart sank in blood-boiling fury and heart-aching disappointment.

Mom wanted to bake? Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad.

There was no denying it, no pretending I’d misunderstood her. The signs were all here and they were as clear as a Christmas bell.

Even though she promised we’d skip this year, Mom entered the Holiday Spirit Awards competition anyway.

I said a bad word under my breath as the chill skated down my spine.

“Noelle!” She shouted. “I need your help in here!”

The sounds of Christmas music floated out and disappointment flooded through me on a tsunami wave. This was not a drill—we were now at Elf-Con 3 and the situation was looking worse with every minute.

Slowly, I headed for the kitchen, stopping at the door when I heard my parents on the phone.

“Ricki, honey, I’m not sure about this. I mean, we did promise.” That was Dad, his voice tinny on the speakerphone.

“Kevin, it’ll be fine. Noelle will understand. We’ll make it up to her. We’ll do a huge catered birthday party. She’ll love that,” Mom countered.

No. I would hate that.

I only wanted the day at the museum with a couple of friends and maybe a nice dinner out someplace because it was low key. That was me in a two words or less.

“…and I thought we’d put a new tree in that room, one he might like to trim himself,” she was saying.

“Okay, I’ll bring home a small tree.”

“Thanks, that would be a big help. I wanted to buy the tree earlier, but Crystal insisted we go to the boutique for her holiday outfit and well—”

It wasn’t for a holiday outfit! It was for my birthday party.

“It’s no problem. There are two lots nearby,” Dad said.

“Well, good. Nick says Quintin’s never really had a family Christmas. As soon as I heard that, I checked the rules and learned he can participate as a member of our family, because he’ll be with us for longer than three days, so could you bring home more flour and molasses for the gingerbread contest? Oh! And extra tape for the gift-wrap contest.”

“Will do. Bye, honey.”

She pressed the end button on the phone and flipped on the stand mixer. “Noelle!”

Tears stung again.

My mother’s promises were like the egg whites she was currently whipping into frothy meringue—filled with air.

I stepped into view and waited for her to notice me.

She wore a red apron trimmed in white. Little red bells jingled from her ears. Two trays of frozen lasagna waited their turn in the oven. On the counter, she fitted blades into a second mixer—a handheld one, this time. Mom’s dark hair was pinned up and already streaked with flour. She measured cream of tartar into the stand mixer while operating the hand-held mixer with the other hand and finally caught sight of me lurking in the doorway.

“Noelle, good. Finally! Didn’t you hear me calling you? Start doing those dishes. I’m incredibly behind schedule and need to get dinner moving so we can get straight to decorating the cookies as soon as we finish eating. The cookie contest is in two days so there will be plenty of time for do-overs.”

Dinner. Decorating. Do-overs?

No. No! NO!

I didn’t know why but I still couldn’t believe what I heard. I mean, I had enough evidence in hand. Maybe there was still enough of the child in me who still believed in Santa when I said, “You said we’d skip the contests this year. You said we’d have a nice relaxing holiday. You said my birthday could be top priority this year.”

I flicked the power off for the stand mixer so I could hear her reply. She gave me a sharp look.

“Yes, yes, you’re right. I did say that.” She waved a hand like we were talking about something insignificant, like whether to use salted or sweet butter in the icing. “But that was before Nick brought home his roommate. Quintin is an only child, Noelle. His parents won’t even be around for Christmas. Now, come on. You wouldn’t want to spend Christmas by yourself, would you?”

I blinked at her.

“Well, would you?”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

“Noelle, be serious,” she snapped, not the least bit amused. “While you think about how horrible you have it surrounded by all this Christmas magic, understand that Quintin has never had this joy. Since he’ll be spending the mid-semester break with us, we’re all going to make sure Christmas is special for him.”

“Mom, that’s really nice, but what about me? I’d like my birthday to be special for once. We planned the museum outing weeks ago and—“

“Oh, the museum.” She wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed the calendar from its home on the refrigerator door. “The 26th won’t work, because that’s the day of the Christmas Lights Walk. You can’t go on the 25th, obviously, and the 24th is out because we have the award announcement. The 23rd could still work if it’s before three o’clock…”

The 25th is exactly the day we’d planned on. Right after everybody celebrated with their respective families in the morning, we’d planned to be in the city by 2 PM to see the exhibit. I can’t believe she’d go back on her word like this. The pang in my chest felt like my heart cracked down the center. “No! You said—no. You promised we’d—”

She flicked on the hand held mixer.

Rage lurked just under that pang of disappointment. I snatched the bag of flour just as Mom reached for it. I’d meant to toss the whole damn sack into the trash. Yeah, I know it was childish and immature, but desperate times/desperate measures.

That’s when Nick walked in followed by someone…well, tall.

That’s all I could tell you about his roommate.

The rest of him was obscured by the cloud formed by half the damn sack of flour I’d somehow squeezed all over him.

Like I said. This was bad. This was very, very bad.”

Excerpt From
Mistlefoes
Patty Blount
This material is protected by copyright.

The post The snow’s really gonna hit the fan… appeared first on Patty Blount, Author.

Who loves Christmas romance? How about rom-com?

I wrote one for a YA audience called Mistlefoes and it comes out next month!

Follow my socials for the cover reveal, coming soon. Or, head over to my website and sign up for my newsletter!

It's almost Halloween!

If you love a good ghost story, don't miss my upcoming release, THE SMELL OF SMOKE AND ASH. It drops on Halloween and is my 7th young adult title to date.

17-year-old Riley Carter lost his dad and brother in a house fire when he was 12. He's been seeing visions of his dad ever since. But lately... those visions are growing more intense. Dangerous. When one injures him, he seeks help from a local psychic who informs him that his dad is haunting him.

Why?

That's what Riley has to find out.

Fast. Before the next vision kills him...

I BLINK AND DOUBLE–CHECK that I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing because sometimes, I see things that aren’t real.

That can’t be real.

Slowly, I lift a pair of keys from a cotton-lined box my step-dad just slid across the massive dining room table we almost never use — one round, one square. Yep. They’re real. I’m not imagining this. 

Pontiac keys. 

My dad’s keys.

“Happy birthday, son,” Greg says softly. I look up and he snaps a picture of my stunned expression with the new cell phone Mom and I gave him for Father’s Day last week. 

Happy birthday. 

There are no cards on display, no balloons, no pointy hats. There aren’t even any guests at this particular party. The last time I had a truly happy birthday was the year I turned eleven. That was the birthday I helped Mom deliver my baby brother. A year later, we lost Tyler and Dad in a fire, so yeah. My birthday is a day Mom and I wish we could forget. But Greg won’t let us. He always, always makes sure I get a cake on my birthday, even on those birthdays when Mom couldn’t get out of bed. Okay, sure, it’s a grocery store cake and it never has candles on it because…fire. But still. Now that Greg and Mom are married, he does whatever he can to help us remember this day isn’t only about loss. 

I clutch the keys tightly in my hand just in case they are another figment of my imagination and it hits me. This is a happy-sad moment, a moment that sneaks in after you’re sure you’ll never remember what happy looks like or sounds like or even tastes like and then, when you do remember, you say, Whoa! Back off, happiness! I can’t feel like this ever again, remember? And you don’t. Instead, you actually feel sad for daring to feel a little happy.

I’ve gotten really good at faking it through these moments…pretending everything’s great while my insides are churning. When I saw that box, I pasted a cheesy smile on my face because I was positive the key inside would be to the beat-up old Sentra Greg bought to teach me to drive a stick shift.  

“Riley, say something,” Mom demands on a laugh. 

I swallow hard and check one more time that I’m not imagining this, dreaming this, hallucinating this because, holy crap, holy crap, holy crap—these keys…These are the keys to my dad’s classic muscle car. He bought that car before I was born and spent years restoring it. My earliest memories are riding in its backseat. I look him dead in the eye. “Is this for real, Uncle Greg? You’re not selling it?”

Greg exchanges a look with Mom. “No, kid. We couldn’t do that.”

“But I thought…I mean, you were cleaning it up. And all that talk about how expensive it is to run?”

“We got you good,” he says on a laugh. “No, Ry. That car’s for you. It’s always been for you. Your dad wanted you to have it.” 

My throat burns but I refuse to cry. Seventeen-year-old guys are too old for that shit. For the first time since we lost Dad and Tyler, I think I feel happy-happy. A breeze blows through the open windows, bringing the scent of someone’s burgers grilling and someone else’s cut grass into this room we rarely use. Outside, I hear kids shrieking and a dog barking. These are all the signs of life going by and damn, they usually piss me off. I want to run outside to shout at all the everyday people Hey! Don’t you know what we’ve lost? How can you laugh? How can you live?  

I never do, of course. No, Mom and I just keep pretending we’re fine. That’s part of the happy-sad dance we do. Laughing while part of you still cries. Living while part of you wants to die. Getting up every day, knowing your dad and brother never will…because of you. 

In the mirror on our dining room wall, I see the flames seething and quickly look away. Not now. Please, God, not now.

Mom doesn’t know about the…the things I see. 

I can’t tell her. 

I won’t tell her. 

She’ll panic that the illness that almost killed me when I was little is back to finish the job. It’s not, though. I know how sick feels and I’m not sick. Ty saved me…well, his umbilical cord blood did. 

I hadn’t been able to save him, though. If I hadn’t been so ticked off about our birthday plans changing because Tyler was teething, Mom and I wouldn’t have been at the movies when the fire started. If we’d been home, we would have noticed the smoke and gotten everyone out. Or–or maybe we’d have all died together. 

That would have been better than the half-living thing we’ve been doing ever since.

I swallow hard, willing those thoughts away, because right now, Mom’s doing her own happy-sad dance. Smiling and crying at the same time, holding Greg’s hand. And Greg…well, his version of happy-sad is to press his lips together in a tiny smile while staring at Mom. He really loves her…loves us both. He was Dad’s best friend, his partner on the force, and my god-father. Out of all of us, he’s got it the hardest. His happiness didn’t start until our sadness did and that’s gotta mess with your head. 

It wasn’t right away, of course. No, it was long after…after that night and Mom wasn’t dealing with things. I went to see Greg at the precinct. He had a fit that I was there by myself. When I asked him to come over, when I told him how Mom wasn’t even getting out of bed some days, he promised he’d help. 

It took time. 

A long time. 

Years, actually. And finally, Mom started to smile and laugh again. Greg did that for her. For us. 

When I was fifteen, I walked her down the aisle at their wedding and life is close to normal — except for the seeing things part.

I leap from my chair and tackle him in a hug I really mean. “Can I…I mean, right now? Is it okay?” 

He laughs and thumps my back. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Go pick up Davis and cruise around town.” 

I run upstairs to my room and grab my phone and my wallet, where my freshly minted driver’s license is safely tucked. I tap out a quick message to Davis, my best friend, tell him to be outside waiting for me in ten minutes, shove the phone into my pocket and run back downstairs.

In the garage, I flip on the light and just stare. I run my hand over the hood, up one steel curve, down another. 

The car gleams like it’s showroom-new again but it’s not. It’s a 1969 GTO in a bright shade of blue that Pontiac called Crystal Turquoise. And it’s a convertible with a black rag top, a hood-mounted tachometer, and a four-speed manual transmission. It was my dad’s favorite thing on this planet. My heart speeds up when I insert the round key into the lock and open the door, smelling old vinyl mixed with oil and…red lollipops.

It’s Dad.

Red lollipops were his crutch. Dad gave up smoking when I was born…and had trouble sticking to it. I’ve heard this story a dozen times. Every time he wanted to smoke, he sucked on a lollipop instead. Only red ones. He said it helped occupy his hands and his mouth. Mom would shake her head and laugh. She used to worry he’d piss red but I always knew she was happy he tried so hard to be healthy so he’d live longer. 

But smoke killed him anyway. 

I friggin’ hate irony. 

The cherry candy scent fades and I smell IT. 

It’s ash and rot and decay and mold. 

It’s a beast, a monster. Death. 

“Ry?” 

“Yeah?” My voice is gravel. Quickly, I blink tears away and turn my head. There’s Mom, sneaking toward me, holding two envelopes.

“Honey, shh! This is from Jason. For your first tank of gas. Let’s just keep it from Greg, okay? You know how he is about Jason.”

Please leave, Mom. Just go! “Yeah. Sure.”

She bites her lip and hands me both envelopes. “The other one is something from Dad. I’ve been saving it.” 

Mom manages a quick smile and disappears back inside. 

As soon as she shuts the door, I let my head drop back against the seat, breathing hard to clear those foul odors from my nose. “It’s all in your head, man. You don’t smell anything. It’s just your imagination.” A few more deep breaths and I almost believe it.

Almost. 

I rip open the first envelope and find a birthday card from Jason Strauss, one of my dad’s old pals from the detective squad. He’s a lawyer now. Greg hates Jason with all the fury of a volcanic eruption. He blames Jason for my dad’s death — says Jason was the last person to see my Dad alive. But Jason denies being at the house that night. Whatever happened between Jason and Greg goes deeper than that night, but neither one will tell me about it, so I just don’t even ask anymore. 

Happy Birthday, Ry-Ry! Here’s something for your first tank of gas. Your mom told me Greg was fixing up the GTO for you. Go fill ‘er up and take the car out for a road trip. When you pass by my office, honk twice so I can pretend I’m riding shotgun! Be safe. 

I laugh. I haven’t been called Ry-Ry since I was like, four. I tuck the gift card into my wallet. The first thing I’ll do is drive by Jason’s Main Street law office, maybe rev the beast under this hood a bit. 

I carefully open the second envelope. It’s old, kind of worn. Inside, there’s a folded-up sheet of copy paper. I unfold it and discover it’s a whole explanation about the meaning of our last name, Carter, printed out from some genealogy website. At the top, in Dad’s scrawl, is a note.

Been saving this for your first solo drive, Riley! Drive smart. Remember, the GTO is a powerful car. Don’t abuse the privilege of getting to drive something that’s older than both of us and will probably outlive us both. I’ll know if you do. 

I shut my eyes but a few tears leak out anyway. 

I read a few paragraphs of the genealogy print-out. My parents used to love tracing our ancestry and could spend hours on those websites. Carter means one who drives carts; a traveler or sojourner. Cool. 

I swipe a knuckle under both eyes, wipe away the tears, and slide behind the wheel. Just as I’m about to put the key in the ignition, it happens again. 

I’m sucked away from reality. 

It always starts with a wave of—of something I can’t name, washing over me, taking me over. I tell myself not to look, but I have to. 

In the rearview mirror. 

The flames. My God, they’re back. They’re the one thing I wish I could stop seeing. They’re in my dreams, in my waking moments, always fucking with me.

Fire. Red, vicious flames raging higher. Higher. HIGHER. 

It’s the night we lost Dad and Tyler all over again. 

And again. 

And again. 

My lungs clog with smoke that isn’t really here. My eyes burn as my vision fades to white and I’m gone. A hundred more thoughts I can’t seem to finish race through my mind like scenery from the passenger window of a car speeding down a highway and it’s too much. My head pounds and I’m about to short-circuit. I clap my hands over my mouth, trying not to puke. I struggle to hear the words, just one word, under a heavy layer of white noise that’s almost deafening. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s crushing my head. I can’t breathe. Make it stop. Jesus, make it stop. 

Only it doesn’t stop. 

It’s here.

Wherever here is, I am not alone. Whatever’s here with me — it’s pure evil. It’s a beast, a monster that guards this hellscape. I can smell it. In the bright whiteness broken up only by random dark blobs, I can barely make out the dark shape moving toward me. 

Hunting me. 

I gasp and try to claw my way out but I can’t move. 

My muscles tense and my heart pounds and every hair on my body stands at alert. Fear is swallowing me alive. 

The swirling shape stalks me — closer. 

Closer.

Closer still, yet its shape is indistinct. In this colorless place, it glows red — but I still can’t tell what it is. It’s immense, a huge snarling monster. It opens its mouth and I squeeze my eyes shut because I know if I stare down that maw, I’ll be consumed alive.

It knows I’m here but it can’t find me in the void. When it roars its frustration, my breath gets sucked from my body. It’s a wave—a flood — a concussive shockwave of emotion I can’t stop and it rolls over me, tossing me around like a leaf in a storm. I feel its putrid breath blasting over me, through me, leaving behind the smell of metal and ash and desiccated, decaying things. 

There’s one sound I can hear in all this chaos. A baby is crying, and even though I know it’s impossible, I know it can’t be real, every instinct I have tells me it’s Tyler and I have to protect him. 

The beast swings its enormous head around, ears twitching. And then, it hunts him. 

“No!” I scream but I make no sound. 

I’m cold. I’m boiling. I’m scared. I’m paralyzed. I’m going to die of fright. My hands clench into fists and I want to scream my frustration into the sky but my voice is off-line. I brace for the pain I know will be so hot, so vicious, it’ll take me to my knees but it’s okay, it’ll all be worth it, if I can just hang on a few more seconds, because what comes after this agony is heaven. 

Warmth. 

Strength.

Love. 

Dad. Oh, God, Dad!

I can see him! He’s behind the veil, but I know it’s him because I can smell him, too. This place swallows sounds but can’t stop the odors. 

If I have to put up with the other stuff forever…I will, because he’s here with me — or I’m there with him — wherever there is.

Abruptly, the baby’s cries end and I know the monster got him. Fury, disgust, and grief — a bottomless well of grief — swamp me. 

And then, it’s all turned off. The avalanche, the tsunami of fear — it all goes away. Like my dad stopped it for me.

Dad! I’m here, I’m right here! 

Somehow, he can always find me in the void. But I can’t hear him. I can’t reach him. He’s screaming, but I don’t know what he’s saying. 

And then, he starts to pull back.

No! Not yet. The unfairness of it makes me want to die. I feel him fading away so I strain with all of my strength because even though I know this is impossible, I can’t stop hoping I can keep him with me just a little longer. 

But it doesn’t work. 

It never does. 

The blare of the car’s horn I accidentally pressed zaps me back to here, to now. I suck in great big breaths of clean air that smells normal again. When my brain comes back online with the mother of all headaches, all I can think is…how much longer can I keep hiding this from Mom?

 

The post It’s all in his mind… appeared first on Patty Blount, Author.

I've decided to self-publish my next novel!

Look for THE SMELL OF SMOKE AND ASH, a YA paranormal thriller, coming this autumn!

Check my website for more info.

Hi!

I’m excited to reveal the new project I’ve been working on. It’s called THE SMELL OF SMOKE AND ASH and should be out this autumn. It’s a Young Adult paranormal thriller and it needs YOUR help to succeed.

I’m looking for people willing to post their reviews of advanced/uncorrected copies prior to October. Are you in? If so, please head over to Google Forms and complete the Sign-Up sheet!

Just for you, here’s an exclusive peek at the cover design for THE SMELL OF SMOKE AND ASH, designed by the incomparable Devin Maupin!

Here’s a teaser:

It’s all in his mind. That’s what he tells himself whenever he has a vision…until one hurts him. 

Skeptical Riley Carter cannot tell his mom about the strange visions he’s been having since his dad and little brother died in a fire. Psychics aren’t real; they’re just crooks who prey on the bereaved. But his visions are getting worse. More dangerous. And when one injures him, Riley is forced to admit he needs help.

She knows your feelings…even the ones you think you’re hiding. 

Jasmine Gregory’s dad has been missing for months. The police think he took off with another woman but Jasmine and her mom refuse to believe that. The only sign she’s had leads her to a harbor town on Long Island, where she meets a boy whose psychic abilities just may be as strong as hers…if he believed in that sort of thing. The more she gets to know Riley Carter, the more convinced she becomes that her dad’s disappearance is connected to his father’s murder.

All she has to do now is convince Riley that she’s a real psychic…and so is he.

This isn’t real. It can’t be.

Jasmine seems to know exactly what Riley feels…even when he’s not entirely sure himself. When she tells him his dad is haunting him, Riley doesn’t want to hear it. But as his visions keep getting stronger and more dangerous, the message his dad’s been trying to send him becomes clear.

The fire was no accident. 

Worse, whoever set it is getting ready to kill again.

 

The post PATINATION Review Team appeared first on Patty Blount, Author.

Hi!

I’m excited to reveal the new project I’ve been working on. It’s called THE SMELL OF SMOKE AND ASH and should be out this autumn. It’s a Young Adult paranormal thriller and it needs YOUR help to succeed.

I’m looking for people willing to post their reviews of advanced/uncorrected copies prior to October. Are you in? If so, please head over to Google Forms and complete the Sign-Up sheet!

The post Review Team for New Title Dropping This Fall appeared first on Patty Blount, Author.

I am completely against book bans in any form. Parents have the right to determine what's appropriate for THEIR and only THEIR children to read, not all of us.

SOMEONE I USED TO KNOW was banned in a Florida school district and it just tortures me. I've had so many readers -- male readers, too! tell me how the novel helped them understand a complicated issue a bit more clearly.

I hope you'll join me in resisting book bans by reading all of the books libraries and schools are being forced to remove from their shelves, including mine.

Visit the Brooklyn Public Library to learn more about their program "Books Unbanned."

Book fans!

The Kindle version of SOME BOYS is $1.99 until March 31st!