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    Grounded: Paranormal Penny Mysteries, #1
    Grounded: Paranormal Penny Mysteries, #1
    Grounded: Paranormal Penny Mysteries, #1
    Ebook163 pages2 hours

    Grounded: Paranormal Penny Mysteries, #1

    By Sarah Hualde

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    About this ebook

    As the music played…
    …she knew one thing.
    Somebody was marked for death.

     

    Penny Nicols is an 18-year-old girl with the "gift" of seeing terrible omens. It has kept her from making friends. She doesn't want the pain of being responsible for their demise. Always running from the Raven, she finds herself in the great northwest.

     

    When does a paranormal gift become a curse?

    The moment she sees her boss' death in a cup of coffee.

    Janice may have only 24-hours left.

     

    Four hours away, over the internet, she makes a friend. A podcaster, T.C., who isn't afraid of Penny's ability, encourages her to solve the case and save her boss, but will they unravel the lyrical clues in time?

     

    With the help of her snarky cat, Spades, they go deep into the mystery.

    A truck almost finished Janice off, and Penny knows it won't be the last close call.

     

    You'll love the first book in this new paranormal mystery series because Penny and Spades are the perfect team of sleuths to thwart the Raven's plans.

    Get it now.

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIndie Christian Writers
    Release dateOct 26, 2020
    ISBN9781732506275
    Grounded: Paranormal Penny Mysteries, #1
    Author

    Sarah Hualde

    Sarah lives in California, in a home that brings her happiness and hay fever. She loves God, loves her family, and loves freshly brewed coffee. She has a husband who cooks, a son who stop animates, a daughter who loves animals, a dog that follows her everywhere, and a turtle who scowls at her condescendingly. Her mother raised her on Mary Higgins Clark, Dianne Mott Davidson, and Remington Steele. Her grandmother shared True Crime stories with her as they plotted how to get away with the perfect murder. It's no surprise that Sarah became an award-winning spinner of suspenseful tales brimming with quirky characters. Mysteries are in her blood. Not that she could survive one of her own stories. She confesses, "I'd be snuffed out by Chapter two." Join Sarah's Super Sleuth Squad and follow her on YouTube for behind-the-scenes insider info. Super Squad Newsletter ----> https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/g1k6r0 YouTube-----> https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCK9ywmqk_2k-mEssZMkEvBQ

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      Book preview

      Grounded - Sarah Hualde

      1

      I ’m losing my mind ! I screamed into my pillow.

      Why in the world was I about to talk on the phone to my stalker? I cringed at the question. Stalker was too strong a label to stick on T.C. He was sort of sweet. So was his friend, Scrubb.

      Maybe calling him an extremely interested, awkwardly attentive acquaintance would be better. I don’t know. 

      Still, why was I seconds away from engaging him in conversation?

      I had no idea. Maybe because T .C. was willing to pay me? And I really needed the money.

      Sure, or I’d gone completely nuts. That was always a strong possibility.

      It’s beyond creepy, which is ironic, given my bizarre gifting. Usually, I’d be the one considered creepy. (More on that later.)

      It truly takes one to know one. Maybe that’s why he was drawn to me. And me to him. We were both citizens on the fringe of normalcy. Perhaps it was our collective oddness that had me dialing his number.

      Nah. It was definitely the money. My old van needed some love. Love as a massive tune-up and new tires. That’s why I risked it all and called T.C. 

      At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Too bad I’m not very convincing.

      As the phone rang, I pulled Ace of Spades, my cat, to my side to comfort my pulsating nerves.

      My tiny house, made from a converted VW Bus, usually made me feel safe and secluded. Instead, I felt naked and hunted.

      It was all part of the price of speaking with T.C. I underestimated the effect giving into him would have on me. I debated hanging up the phone, there and then. But T.C. had already paid me well, and I had promised. I never broke a promise. Promises were all I had to hang on to.

      Penny, hello. T.C.’s overeager greeting made my feet itch.

      I wanted to run. But there was nowhere to go. I was already home. I pulled Spades closer. The cat allowed me to squish him with only a meager hiss of disdain.

      Hello, I squeaked. Regret and panic nibbled at my public persona.

      I’m so glad you’re willing to do this, T.C. said. 

      His voice didn’t sound like it normally did when he was recording. On the Extra ExtraOrdinary podcast, his excitable tenor smoothed out. It became velvety, authoritative, and self-assured.

      Now, it reminded me of a Jr. High band nerd. The transition put me a bit more at ease. He wasn’t any more certain about me than I was about him. That leveled the field.

      I’m not really sure what it is we’re doing, I said. Way to go, Captain Obvious, I thought.

      I stumbled over the right thing to say. I strove to project confidence and establish respect. Instead, I blurted out the first thing that came to me and opened myself up for ridicule and manipulation.

      What else was new?

      Not to worry, T.C. said. Scrubb is getting the recording equipment situated.  It’ll be a few minutes before we start. None of this is live. We splice and edit it and stick in a sponsor or two before it ever hits the listener's ears.

      Sponsors? Like commercials? Flabbergasting. People paid to have their businesses advertised on T.C.’s conspiracy theory network.

      T.C. chuckled on the other end of the call. Crazy, isn’t it? Yes, we currently have two sponsors. Both cater to our particular demographic.

      Weirdoes, I thought, but didn’t say.

      Weirdoes, T.C. said. A morsel of pride simmered in his words. I believe that’s the common term for our followers.

      Spades meowed loudly and scratched at me. He caught the soft spot of my wrist with one of his tiny cat talons. Stop it! I shooed him away. So much for being the comforting companion. Spades was a cat, after all. Though mostly accommodating, sometimes my black cat friend had to remind me of his felineness.

      Sorry, I said to T.C. My cat needs to roam. I shoved Spades out the passenger door of my van, AKA Godzilla, and rolled down the window.

      Spades could finagle his way in through the tightest of spaces. He’d be back after a long prowl. Hopefully, before T.C. and I ended our chat. I could only guess that I’d need a good cuddle by then. Anxiety bubbled in my stomach and surged up my spine to knot on my shoulder blades. It was all I could do to keep breathing.

      We’re nearly ready. How are you doing, Penny? T.C. asked. He didn’t realize the crushing weight of paranoia this one exchange was pushing on me. Pleased with himself and a bit cocky, he chatted with the podcast producer in the background.

      Okay, let's get cracking. I heard T.C. clap on the other side of the call. The casual tone he’d answered with melted away. Deeper and deliberately professional T.C. began our call. You need a break? Let me know. Scrubb and I will piece our call together to make it as flattering as possible.

      I cleared my throat. My mouth had suddenly become a desert. I chugged down a swallow of bottled water, only to choke and cough through the phone.

      Things were about to get real. And I despised reality.

      How long do we have you? T.C. asked.

      Thanks to my stunning past self, I’d scheduled the call around working hours. If I was on and off the call as quickly as T.C. had promised, I could squeeze in a good cry and a nap before my shift.

      Wishful thinking.

      30 minutes to an hour, I answered the madman on the other line.

      Great. Great, T.C. replied.

      THE ENTIRE CALL LASTED over ninety minutes. Spades returned and left again in that time. After circling restlessly around my ankles, he curled up on my driver's seat as I curled into the fetal position and rocked.

      It hadn’t been as bad as I’d dreaded. T.C. wanted to know the same things I’d always wanted to know.

      Sadly, I couldn’t give him answers I didn’t have.

      My so-called abilities were far beyond my understanding or control. Simply put, I saw things. (Still do.) Twinklings. Nudges. Glimpses of what the future might be. They were never good. Life just didn’t work out that way. Not for me and not for most of the people I’d come in contact with.

      These teeny peeks, into what would be, never come without caveats. Usually, doom followed on their heels. Doom and disaster. Of varying measure. After the mayhem, it was customary for me to either bear the blame or run terrified into the night.

      T.C. was the first person to notice my strangeness and still want to know more. Usually, even my best of friends charged off in the opposite direction. I didn’t blame them. Not really. If I could, I would run away from these foreshadowings too.

      I couldn’t. I tried. They never left me alone for long.

      In fact, I’d just escaped another encounter in a small town between Ashton and Lewiston called Pottersville. After witnessing two kidnappings, they snagged me too.

      Thankfully, the town radiated with maternal instinct. A group of homeschool moms rescued and looked after me. I’d be crazy to think their kindness would last another round of the bad luck that follows me like a personal plague.

      I’d made a friend in Pottersville. A strange old man, who had been my boss while I was there. I’d check in with him once a month. Typically, by phone or email. Never face to face. The farther I stayed away from Mr. Joe, the better things would be for him.

      This brought me back to being curled up in my tiny house on wheels, cradling my knees. I rolled there a few moments longer before dusting myself off, applying a smear of lip gloss, and heading to work.

      Even a girl in exile needs to eat. As I’d discovered through the years, small businesses in small towns rarely checked references. There was usually some place that needed seasonal help, pronto. I was their gal.

      The jobs were far from glamorous. They built up my experience, paid for my top ramen and cell phone, and kept Godzilla fed.

      Rocky Grounds and Gifts was my newest place of employment. Mr. and Mrs. Rockland needed someone to roast, grind, and bag their seasonal coffee bean blends as they ran their shop.

      Caffeine hung in the atmosphere. Just being near them and their quaint, homey store made every skin cell in my body buzz.

      Opening the front door to start my shift blasted me with the smell of caramel, vanilla, and dark roast. If reading had a scent, I couldn’t imagine a better match.

      2

      T here’s my lucky Penny , Mr. Rockland hollered from the back. My stomach churned. I hated whenever anyone called me that.

      If they only knew.

      Terry burned the beans again, Mrs. Rockland whispered from behind the cash register.

      Terry Rockland was not a pleasant person to encounter. Neither was his father. Not unless they needed something from you. Which they did.

      From website maintenance to toilet bowl scrubbing, I was their go-to girl. As long as I ignored their awkward stares and murmured jabs at my weight, the status quo was tolerable.

      Mrs. Rockland was the glittering gem of the trio. Genuinely a sweet person, she made working at Rocky Grounds bearable. Unfortunately, her husband and her son talked down to

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