Michael Phillip Cash
Well, the baby’s shoelace is tied in a knot so tight we should just cut it off. Then her endearingly beat up sneakers (tennis shoes to the rest of the world outside of Long Island) will be all dirty with brand, spanking new white laces. That won’t do. An hour later, Daddy vs. the knot, Daddy wins.
She’s crying though, “What….What? You’re in the laundry? Okay…I’ll give her a bottle.” Nothing better than Daddy and baby time with a lukewarm bottle, milky bubbles drooling from her pursed lips.
I check Amazon, relief that Stillwell is ranked, worried the number is lower than before. I look at the computer, my keyboard stares blankly back at me, but I hear my wife call,
“Get Alex off the bus.”
“Sure, no problem,” I respond, happy to help.
The corner is freezing, my hands numb, my mind blank. The air is sucked from my lungs as if I stepped into a vacuum. Other parents sidle up next to me, as we stand in a circle searching for warmth. We smile at each other, our eyes streaming from the cold.
The bus arrives and the kids bounce off, scarves unbound, mittens flopping, so we all take a minute to rebundle our bundles of joy. The walk back to the house is filled with stories about Jaden, Aiden, and Evan. The house smells of sausage and peppers, rice boiling over, and my daughter is screaming with delight that her older brother is home.
“Help with homework?” No problem, a pleasure, let me check Amazon first. Stillwell is up, a higher number, relief expands in my chest.
Listen to my son reading his new book, the words forming first silently as his mouth tries them out. He is triumphant, thrilled with the freedom of being able to read for himself. We proudly reread the book for the entire family.
Dinner is noisy, my daughter loves to squish her food and I can’t take my eyes off the ooze squeezed through her tight fist. It’s delicious, tart and sweet, like my family life. The golden light from our kitchen fixture bathes us in homey warmth. Beds, bath, more books, this time Daddy and Mommy do the reading. Then the sound of the house settling down, heat clanking in the old pipes, hiss of radiators, the kids yawns of satisfaction of a day jammed with activities.
It’s quiet, the computer screen lights the room, a beacon of judgment. It dares me to look up Stillwell one more time instead of working on my next title; accusing me of procrastination.
The house is dark, my mind like a wax tablet waiting for impression. Nothing comes, not even interruptions.
I can’t end this story, my characters have gone as silent as a tomb and won’t tell me what to do!
What was I thinking? A full time writer? Who does that? Should I check Stillwell again?
How can I end this book to get on with the next? I am drowning! The water is closing over my head and I can’t breath! Wait…can’t breath?
I pause, holding my breath.
I turn to the closing chapter of my next book in the Daracia series. I think I got it.
by Michael Phillip Cash
Julie and Brad Evans are house flippers. They buy low, clean out the old occupants’ junk, and try to make a profit. Enter Hemmings House on Bedlam Street in scenic Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island. Too good a deal to pass up, but with an ominous secret. The old Victorian Mansion has dwellers that do not want to be dispossessed. As the house reveals its past, will the couples marriage survive The Flip?
From Publisher’s Weekly- The Flip
Michael Phillip Cash (Stillwell) again succeeds in setting an engaging supernatural thriller in the world of Long Island real estate, though he’s stronger at depicting human relationships than he is at generating scares. Julie and Brad Evans have hinged their hopes of financial security on house flipping, a work-intensive strategy that offers them few opportunities for relaxation. Brad has misgivings about their latest acquisition, a creepy Victorian mansion, ominously situated on Bedlam Street in Cold Spring Harbor. Those feelings are validated when he’s victimized by Tessa, a voracious female ghost with very carnal appetites. Cash is effective at creating his version of the afterlife, where ghosts like Tessa exist in fear of more powerful entities known as the Sentinels. His best work comes, however, in his plausible portrayal of a marriage under stress from the need to hustle to stay solvent. (BookLife)
Link to Follow Tour: http://worldwindtours.com/index.php/2016/08/10/tour-sign-up-the-flip/
Michael Phillip Cash is an award-winning novelist and screenwriter. His novels are best-sellers on Amazon under their genres – Young Adult, Thriller, Suspense, Ghost, Action Adventure, Fantasy, Paranormal Romance and Horror.
Michael writes full-time and lives on the North Shore of Long Island with his wonderful wife and screaming children. You can follow him @michaelpcash.
Click below for an excerpt
I said I’m not going back there. That house is haunted. There, I’ve said it. It’s a haunted house.” “Julie!” Heather protested. “Stop that. You are so much better than this.”
Brad sighed. “Look, I’ll call Sal. His girlfriend works or that medium you talked about. If she comes with us to the house, will you come home?”
“It isn’t home, Brad. I thought you hated the house.”
“I did. I do. Well, it’s been kind to us,” he said.
“Are you nuts? What are you talking about?”
“The crap we’ve pulled out of there. We stand to make a considerable amount of money. I feel like the house is sort of saving us. Come home with me, Julie.”
Julie looked at his face, the lines of worry around his eyes. She put her hand in his, asking, “You’ll call the lady, Georgia?”
Brad pulled out his phone and dialed Sal. “Hi. Yeah, fine. Listen, Sal, you think you can ask Molly if she can get the psychic out to Bedlam House? Just because. For Julie. OK, call me back.” He turned to his wife. “He’s calling. He said he’s sure he can get her out there. She was interested in the house when he had coffee with her last week.”
“He had coffee with her?” Heather asked. “Small world.”
“What should I do?” Julie asked her sister.
“You know what you should do. You belong with Brad. Go home, Julie. Go confront your ghosts.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I think you believe you’ve had a ghostly encounter. But, honestly, I think you’re just overtired.”
“Come with us, Heather. Maybe if you’re there, you’ll see it, too.”
“Just go with Brad. Call me.” Heather kissed her sister. “It will be fun—the psychic—go on.”
Brad’s phone rang loudly. It was Sal. Georgia Oaken had agreed to visit them tomorrow morning. Everybody was looking forward to it. Sort of.