From the mind of Edison McDaniels comes a ghost story like no other…
What happens when a surgeon becomes obsessed with death?
Dr. Isaac Weed was touched by the death of his daughter. Unfortunately, so were his patients…
Dr. Isaac Weed had it all. A loving wife, a beautiful daughter, a thriving surgical practice, and an almost supernatural gift for healing. But two years after the death of his daughter, struggling to heal and just a shell of the man he once was, Dr. Weed becomes increasingly convinced his dead daughter is trying to contact him from the beyond. When he discovers a door to the afterlife, a door never meant to be opened, he just might be able to get her back. There’s just one problem.
In order to open the door, somebody has to die.
˃˃˃ A supernatural medical thriller that will leave you breathless & exhausted…
“The Touched is one of those unexpected surprises that make reading worthwhile. At once a page-turning thriller, and a metaphysical adventure of the highest order, it’s a book that will keep you turning the pages until you hit the marvelously redemptive ending craving more. One can’t but think of Stephen King, as the story’s rich cast of lovable, exquisitely-rendered characters grapple with evil, beauty, and the depths of grief and hope.”
The TOUCHED is currently available for the Kindle at just $2.99.
Sign-Up below & get it for FREE right now!!!
Along with updates and other freebies to come.
Why wait? Let the haunting begin.
~ An Excerpt ~
Then comes the night of the ballet, the night that changes everything forever.
That glorious but awful evening begins with the sun retiring behind a veil of shimmering twilight. The couple shower and, with the hot, luxuriant waters cascading down upon them, entwine as lovers for the first time in perhaps six weeks or two months. The orgasmic embrace is at the furious urging and persistence of Anna, who feels especially close to her husband on this night and knows that Homer would never, otherwise, seek such loving solace of her in her delicate condition. For years afterward, Homer will remember this time together and will wonder if, even then, Anna somehow knew what the night would bring. Over the years to come, this idea will act like a water hammer against his sanity—and slowly erode its very foundation.
But on this night he is as sane as he will ever be again. Anna considers the promise of the life she carries and tells Homer it is a soul in creation. He realizes just how much he loves this woman, how much he loves their baby. They have a quiet, romantic dinner for three and Homer presents her with a diamond tennis bracelet that would have taken him another two years to pay off. He has considered a corsage, but has decided instead upon the bracelet, reasoning she would rather have a permanent keepsake of their special evening at the ballet. The keepsake will be buried with her and Homer will never pay it off.
They arrive 20 minutes early for The Nutcracker. Sitting down, they listen to the murmurs of the crowd and the marvelous but unprepared tunes of the orchestra as it warms up. As the opening curtain rises, Homer places his hand upon Anna’s child-filled belly. He pokes and feels the future within kick back, strong and healthy. He smiles, the two kiss, and the curtain rises.
It happens in the middle of Act II, during the dream. It is fast, with no warning whatsoever. The Arabian dancer is onstage, and her serpentine movements mesmerize the audience. There is a faint popping sound, a sound nobody actually hears in all probability, then a whoosh as the small but heavy spot light crashes down from the ceiling above. Seth’s mother is struck in the head and does not suffer. She dies instantly, or so the coroner will claim later despite all evidence to the contrary. The bread loaf size light cleaves her head, splits it open across the top, and explodes its contents in a wide swath around her. Anna’s blood and skull are flung against Homer with such force he is knocked from his seat. The woman on the other side of Anna screams, a high pitched wail that immediately curdles the stomachs of those within earshot. When the house lights come on a moment later, they reveal gray and white flecks of brain—tissue that had previously held Anna’s memories, hopes, and dreams—splayed across the head and shoulders of a score of strangers.
One of those strangers, a heavyset, older black woman with distinguished gray hair, manages to remain calm and comforts the others. Her presence is soothing in an oddly familiar way, as if she is everyone’s grandmother or best friend, and she somehow keeps the macabre situation from completely unraveling to chaos. The prime individual she comforts is Homer, who sits on the floor between the seats, at the feet of his wife. He looks at his Anna. Tears flow freely down his cheeks and mingle with the blood upon them to produce tiny rivulets of pink here and there. This makes his tears stand out eerily against his black skin. He is dazed and confused but knows at once she is dead, knows their dreams are gone. On impulse, perhaps he senses something or maybe he just needs to touch her, he reaches up and feels her belly. He rubs his hand around in the blood, as if in a trance, as if finger painting on the belly of his dead wife.
Not a breath, not inward like the pull of a contracting diaphragm. Not outward either; there is no broad, diffuse relaxation of the ribs and belly to suggest the movement has been the last gasp of a dying woman.
It moves again.
A poke, a kick.
Something lives inside the dead woman.
Something that is trying to get out.
Something that needs to get out.
Strangers bring the woman to the aisle and lay her there. The elderly black woman has her arm around Homer even as he weeps over the pregnant remains of his wife. A tuxedoed obstetrician—there is a white carnation stuck in his lapel—kneels at Anna’s side. Jenny White observes how he only briefly looks at Anna’s head. It’s blown apart—almost as if something had needed to get out instead of in—and it’s apparent to all no amount of attention there will help her. He focuses his attention on her belly, and must feel impotent the old woman thinks. Jenny White knows the baby must be born at that moment, but there is nothing that can be done without a knife. The physician’s hand reaches along the woman’s neck, apparently seeking a pulse. From the look on his face, and the glance at his watch, it is apparent he can’t find one.
“Three minutes,” he says quietly.
Jenny White knows this is virtually an ultimatum: three minutes before the child within will be as lost as the mother now is.
It takes seven minutes, the obstetrician has timed it, before the first paramedics finally arrive to see Homer still clutching his now very dead wife. As they pull him away, they see the woman’s pregnant belly.
“Please,” he begs, “you must do something…” The tears stream down his cheeks and hysteria finally overcomes him as he reaches out to touch her belly one last time.
It moves again.
The obstetrician sees it and Jenny White watches as he moves with deliberate speed. He takes a scalpel from the paramedic’s bag and immediately cuts the injured woman from one side to the other just below her pregnant belly button. In his haste, the doctor plunges the knife completely through the wall of the uterus and cuts the child’s scalp, leaving an odd mark across the boy’s forehead that Seth will not easily be able to explain in the future. The womb is thus torn open and the doctor pulls from it an infant boy—tiny, blue, listless, and bloody. Dead by all accounts. The paramedics swaddle the newborn in blankets.
Later, at the hospital, people will say it is a miracle the boy survived. Ten minutes by the watch of the obstetrician they will say, ten minutes during which the child should have died three times over.
Ten minutes that evolve into a decade of pain and suffering.