Into the Light Excerpt by Darcia Helle

IntoTheLightWhen I put out a request to mystery/suspense  writers to be a part of my Magical Mystery Blog Tour for A Walking Shadow by Deborah Fezelle and Sherry Yanow, author Darcia Helle answered my call with an unselfish enthusiasm. When writers help me out, I love to help them back in return, so today we bring you an excerpt from Into the Light. And the kindle is no on sale for 99 cents on Amazon until midnight Feb. 12th 

Max about burst with excitement. Someone finally heard him! But the man couldn’t see him. How could he make the man understand that he was here?

Oh no! The curly-haired man was getting in his car. Nice ride. Not a Mercedes but far better than his own stupid Honda. Now he was dead and he’d never own that Mercedes.

  1. Max shoved those thoughts away. This was no time to wallow in self-pity. He couldn’t let this man get away. The car door slammed shut and Max came close to a full-blown panic attack. He had to get in that car. He had to make that man talk to him.

A sizzle slipped down the spine he no longer had. The next thing Max knew, he was in the Charger’s passenger seat, looking straight at the curly-haired man. How had that happened?

The man stuck the shift in drive as Max said, “I’m right here! Hey!”

All the color drained from the driver’s face. Max experienced a twinge of guilt. He didn’t mean to freak the man out but desperate times called for desperate measures. “My name is Max,” he said. “Max Paddington. I need your help.”

“This isn’t happening,” the man mumbled.

“Yes, yes it is! I’m dead. I need your help!”

“Dead. A dead guy is in my car.”




“And you need my help.”

“Yes! You’re the first person who could hear me. Wow! What’s your name?”

“Joe,” he said. “Joe Cavelli. This isn’t happening. I am not talking to a dead guy.”

“I know, Joe” Max said. “This is crazy. But you are and I am. I was murdered yesterday. I think it was yesterday. I’m stuck here in this miserable parking lot.”

“This isn’t happening.”

Joe pressed his foot against the gas pedal. For a moment, Max panicked. What would happen to him now? Would he be stuck in this car, like he’d been stuck in the parking lot? Would the car drive off and he’d be left behind? Spirit life should come with a how-to manual!

As Joe drove, Max found himself still in the passenger seat. So far, so good. At least he wouldn’t be forced to hover over his murder scene for another day.

“I’m still here,” Max said. “Please. I need your help. My wife killed me. Or she had me killed.”

Joe shuddered. His eyes darted toward the passenger seat. “What the hell was in those Calypso Coolers?” he muttered.

“It’s not the drinks. I’m real. Well, as real as a dead person can be.”

“This is insane.”

“You want to talk insane? She killed me over the damn golf clubs! First she tells me she wants a divorce. Next thing I know, I’m hanging out in the parking lot and my body is twenty feet below me.”

Joe swiped a hand over his face. He said nothing.

“I couldn’t get the cops to listen to me. Then they left and I was stuck there in that parking lot. So, can you help me?”

“Help you what?” Joe shook his head. “No, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I can’t help you. You’re dead. You’re not here. I’m losing my mind.”

“No, I am here, Joe! Wasn’t my murder on the news? In the paper? Call my wife! Ask her about the golf clubs.”

“Oh, man.”

Joe shook his head. All those dark curls danced around. Max touched his own thin, mousy hair. Life wasn’t fair. And how was it that he could still touch his own hair, when his body was now in a morgue somewhere?

“I don’t understand this dead thing,” Max said.

Joe swerved, then jammed on the brake inches before sideswiping a young couple in a Toyota. “Stop doing that!” he hissed.

“Okay, sorry. I know I’m springing a lot on you at once. I’ll sit here quietly. Let you absorb it all.”



Author Bio:

Darcia Helle lives in a fictional world with a husband who is sometimes real. Their house is ruled by spoiled dogs and cats and the occasional dust bunny.

Suspense, random blood spatter and mismatched socks consume Darcia’s days. She writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative. Only then are the voices free to haunt someone else’s mind.

Join Darcia in her fictional world:

The characters await you.







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