Donovan— I think the dancer looks a little like me. Anyway. We tracked his EMF disturbance to a Soviet-style apartment complex and a room with flaking, high school-green paint and wall-to-wall computers. I stepped inside. Electric agony jolted me. Another trap. I awoke wrapped in computer cables, plugged into the equipment, my brain feeling like it had gone through the spin cycle. But he’d made a mistake. There is a cyberspace spirit. And that spirit didn’t like the techno-ma

Donovan— Credit cards, telephones, security cameras all work against us. All consciousness may reside in the astral plane, but the mage’s cyber eye is certainly conscious of us. Now I’m running on cash and hackneyed disguises. A blond wig. Big glasses. Floppy hats. You’d enjoy my new look. If there’s a cyberspace spirit, it’s not my friend. I’m still avoiding planes. Fortunately, metaphysical detectives have other means of travel, and I had a plan. I couldn’t beat the mage’s

Donovan— Philosophers believe our souls cross the astral plane on the way to birth and after death. Today’s journey, however, led us to more prosaic places – a high-tech facility in the desert. I followed his magic’s burnt-plastic scent through blinding white corridors. My cloaking spell got us past security guards and scientists, until we reached a door with an optical sensor lock. My unlock spell failed. But it did melt the knob. Small victories. We entered an empty, white-

Donovan— This morning my cell phone nearly took my head off, so the gargoyle post continues. The technomancers were trying to merge cyberspace and the astral plane. The one who escaped is still trying, and if he succeeds... It would be bad. Think of Stonehenge paved over with a parking lot, if Stonehenge were the collective human psyche and the parking lot were cyberspace. And cyberspace… That world brings out our worst, its anonymity breeding outrage and contempt. What a con

Donovan— I’m okay. But e-communications aren’t secure. Gargoyle mail is safer. It seemed a run-of-the-mill pagan ritual. An abandoned church. Moonlight streaming through dusty stained glass. But it had a Silicon Valley twist. Candle apps for candles. Networked PCs marked the directions. Techno-nerds encircled a silver pentagram painted on the rough, wooden floor. And they knew I was coming. Unfortunately, I didn’t know. I was exposed, vulnerable, ignorant. Pigeons fluttered i

An empty table. At Riga Hayworth's house. My homework in a recent class on innovative writing was to write a story on the back of five postcards. The postcards were supposed to add tension to the story. But I got hung up making sure the postcards were in the public domain and out of copyright, so I failed at the "added tension" bit. And I don't think it's terribly innovative either. However, I liked my little Riga Hayworth story and wanted to share. Starting tomorrow, the tab

Yes, I'm still here! At the beginning of March, I sold my house in California and moved to Colorado. I spent the last few weeks house hunting, and I'm now in the process of closing on a mountain home. (Eeeep!). I've managed to keep writing and editing, but things like blogging fell off the radar. I should be able to get back to a more regular schedule once I'm moved in to my new place. So what's been happening? I've sent my 5th Pie Town manuscript to my editor at Kensington.

Whew! With all the chocolate and murder, I've had to take a hiatus from posting. But I'm back this week with my top five in paranormal news. 1) First, in honor of St. Paddy's, there's a hidden leprechaun house at Disneyland in Anaheim! It looks more like a tree than a house, but... 2) An interesting article from the BBC on the witch trials in Scotland. 3) And speaking of witches... Here's an article on a new photography collection of modern American witches. 4) Fact or faked?

Chocolate a la Murder Series: A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery, Book 4 Author: Kirsten Weiss Genre: Cozy Mystery Amazon - B&N - Kobo - Google Play - Audible Maddie gets rattled by a candy-coated murder. It's Wine and Chocolate Days in San Benedetto, and paranormal museum owner Maddie Kosloski has sweet dreams about her new Magic of Chocolate exhibit. Her latest attraction is a haunted Mexican whisk called a molinillo that rattles if someone lies. When Maddie visi

PIE HARD Series: A Pie Town Mystery, Book 3 Author: Kirsten Weiss Genre: Cozy Mystery Amazon - iBooks - B&N - Kobo - Google Play - Audible Will Val pie hard on national TV? Business at the bakery may have slowed down, but Val Harris isn’t about to eat humble pie—not until a reality cooking show decides to whip the struggling Pie Town into shape. If Val can tolerate criticism from an abrasive pastry chef during filming, the free publicity might turn the unusual opportunity int

A new cozy mystery series is on its way! Book 1 of my new Tea and Tarot series, Steeped in Murder, lands in May, 2019. Fortune Favors the Grave, a new freebie novella in the same series, will launch at the same time, exclusive to newsletter subscribers! There will be scone and tea recipes, Tarot, and of course, murder. I just got the covers - check 'em out! On a totally different note, in the Tarot reading community, the word "Tarot" is capitalized. I'm wavering on this in th

The Paranormal Museum is back from hiatus after the Doyle Witches took over the blog. It's hard to compete with, well, that tale. But I'm game for trying with this week's paranormal news! 1) The witch who solved a murder... It sounds like the title of one of Kirsten Weiss's stories, but this tale of modern Salem witch, Laurie Cabot, is weirdly true. 2) And speaking of witches and murder, was witchcraft an element in this Texas killing? 3) 5 myths about witch hunts. In honesty

Zoe’s scream sliced through the bookstore. She shrieked and stumbled in the aisle, knocking the travel books to the carpet. The wolf, skeletal, merciless, hunched it shoulders, readying to spring. Harry’s spirit whispered a curse. In spite of everything, pity surged through me for the woman. But I didn’t turn away. I saw the animal spirit tear at her neck. I saw Harry’s malformed ghost reach into her heart. I saw the sheriff grab Zoe’s wrist. In a back-and-forth motion, the g

Zoe slid the Necronomicon inside her shiny olive jacket. “Drop the belt.” The sheriff unbuckled her utility belt. Her holstered gun thunked to the thin, gray carpet. A cool draft twined about me. My hands dug into Bailey’s fur. Something was here – Harry? – but I couldn’t see it. “You were outside my house last night,” I said. “Yes,” Zoe said. “Now into the storage room.” “Why?” the sheriff asked casually, and this time the chill I felt rattled my bones. The sheriff didn’t wa

“I’ll take that.” With her gun-free hand, Zoe took the book from the counter. She almost looked military in her olive bomber jacket, her pelt of thick, short hair. “Join the sheriff.” She waggled the gun at me. Slowly, I walked around the counter. A wraithlike face blurred its shiny surface. I looked away, a chill rippling my skin. We weren’t alone. But a ghost wouldn’t stop Zoe. I would. “Did you bomb my station?” the sheriff asked. Zoe’s angular face set with fury. “Tom. T

A glittering carapace of snow covered Main Street’s cars and the old west buildings. Movements jerky, I tugged on cotton gloves and stared at the malignant, leather-bound book open on my counter. A weight pressed against my ankle, and I smiled down at Bailey. The beagle’s owner had been happy to leave him here while she shopped. Heart hammering, I bent, studying the autograph through a magnifying glass. Since I’d become a rare book dealer, I’d learned to verify author signatu

Rasputin. I raced downstairs, grabbing the baseball bat in the umbrella stand by the door. My aunt had woven protective wards around the house, and I’d maintained her spells. If Rasputin – or Tom, or whatever his name was – was a dark magician, he wouldn’t cross the property line. Chest heaving, I charged onto the porch. Icy knives of wind pierced the loose cables of my sweater. I shielded my face with one hand. A wiry, masculine figure loped down the road. My hand tightened

My phone rang, jangling me, and I half-fell from the futon. I scrambled across the attic’s rough floorboards to the phone. “Hello?” “It’s me,” Connor said. My shoulders collapsed in relief. “What happened? Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he said. “So’s the book.” “I don’t care about the book.” I clambered to my feet and stared out the attic’s octagonal window. A cloud drifted in front of the waning moon. “It’s you I—” My throat thickened, choking off the words. “What happened?” “W

Frantic, I called Connor. “We’re sorry,” a mechanical voice droned, “you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this—” I hung up and dialed the sheriff. “We’re sorry, you have reached a number—” My breath burst raggedly in and out. They were okay. They had to be. I strode to the front door, grabbed my ivory parka off its hook, wrestled the door open, stared. My neighbor’s pine lay across my driveway. The massive tree had crush

“Do you have information on the murder?” The sheriff’s voice was flat. I leaned against my tile counter and stared at the lights dangling in the window, listened to the screaming wind. Normally I enjoyed a good storm. But I couldn’t tonight, my palm moist on the phone’s slick plastic. “That book you found – is it a Necronomicon?” A long pause. “I thought you didn’t touch the body.” “There’s a photo on Harry’s Instagram—” She sighed. “What part of don’t-interfere-with-an-inves