Guest Post Cover Reveal!

My good friend and gothsis, Anne Michaud has a book coming out very soon. I invited her on my blog for her cover reveal and to give you all a little taste of what is to come! 

Death Song Excerpt

Something catches in the back of my throat. I

hide my face in my hands to quiet the sobs. But then,

something ain’t right. Air moves around me and I

stop. I look between my fingers, but the blur of my

tears thickens everything: the bathtub, the towels,

and someone on the floor.

A woman’s in here with me, door still closed and

locked. An exhale, like after a deep swim, and a smell,

like the swamp close to my empty home. A chill runs

down my back, I wipe my eyes, rub and scratch them

to see more clearly. And I do.

Two gray hands scratch the floor tiles, nails green

with algae, putrid flesh sagging on her legs, arms

and torso, hair so long and wet and heavy, it drags

her down. Diluted, impossible to focus on, like little

waves rippling over her body from head to foot, seaweed

in the water. Scales and fins, mermaidlike, little

knives, those are. And they scrape the floor, like a

fork on a plate. It’s her—Limnade.

She opens her mouth of scissor-teeth and the rotten

smell of fish wraps around my throat like two

hands trying to choke me.

“You can’t be…” I don’t finish my breathless

thought and jump backward, knocking over the dish

of decorative soaps. Blurry waves, vision impaired,

out of focus, unreal. She crawls toward me, eyes unblinking,

lethal, hands inches from me: my legs refuse

to move, as my body feels like stone. Frozen,

hypnotized, a statue. Then I hear something coming

from within her…

A melody, reminding me of something lost, tickles

my ears. It drags on until the sweetness turns sickly,

vibrating into a full-on super-scream, hyenalike,

enough to pop my ears and make them bleed. Her

large mouth deforms her face into one gap of black,

the cry so high and strident, I scream from the pain.

Limnade stares at me, everything but her fades

away—Jo’s nice bathroom, Jo’s new life, Jo himself—

none of it matters anymore. Her fingers brush my

forehead, they’re cold and sticky like clams. And I let

the darkness take me away.

Goodreads

She who likes dark things never grew up. She never stopped listening to gothic, industrial and alternative bands like when she was fifteen. She always loved to read horror and dystopia and fantasy, where doom and gloom drip from the pages.

She, who was supposed to make films, decided to write short stories, novelettes and novels instead. She, who’s had her films listed on festival programs, has been printed in a dozen anthologies and magazines since.

She who likes dark things prefers night to day, rain to sun, and reading to anything else.

She Blogs

She tweets @annecmichaud