Photographs: An Origin Story

 

Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts.

I once wrote a terrible novella. Perhaps "terrible" isn't the appropriate word. Immature? Yes. Green? Wet behind the proverbial ears? Absolutely. At least that's my view from 40,000 feet. Or, more specifically, 40 years later, give or take.

It had horrible demon-like creatures attempting to worm their way into our world. They were coming in through this middle-aged woman's expansive house. Think: Beverly Hills. They were trying to scare her off, so they could bring the rest of their "people" through. It will never see the light of day. You're welcome.

But it had that character, and she haunted me. She was a burnout drunk. She had nothing to care about. I remember when we first met her, she stepped out of the house wearing nothing but a faded old nightgown in the late morning. She marched straight into the pool and kept walking until the water engulfed her. When she didn't drown, she merely climbed out the other side, removed the nightgown, dropped it onto the ground and simply went back dripping wet and naked into the house. I don't want to describe her too much because it will color what became of her. What you need to understand is she needed to be rescued from that story. Not the exact character she was then, but the spirit of her. What could have possibly happened to her to make her so forlorn? I had to discover her secrets... 

Eventually, I began to write my first novel, Dance on Fire. It ended up being a vampire novel (More on that at a later time). I set it down and walked away. There were too many more important things to do (marriage, career, children). I also didn't have the discipline. Nearly twenty years later, I finally completed it. The sequel soon followed. I gave myself a much needed break from my vampires and wrote something completely different. It was a paranormal ghost story. That book came out very well and, refreshed, I raced back to my vampires. I wrote book 3 in that series.

It was at that point that the woman began to call out to me. She still needed to be rescued. So I sat down and did just that...

In 1956, film actress Allison Bell abandoned the glamor of Hollywood for Fresno, California, and an idyllic new life.

In 1959, she disappeared altogether.

Nearly sixty years later, real estate agent Joanna Johnson steps unsuspectingly into the old Belle House and a story long forgotten. A devastating personal event opens a hidden door into the actress's world, and a series of long-lost photographs begin to reveal secrets thought buried.

What happened to Allison?

What happens to Joanna when she finds out?

When I stand in front of people at events, that's the book that they buy. It's everyone's favorite. Truth be told, it's probably my favorite too. It's the one book that's nearly broken even, thanks to local sales.

I self published all of my novels. But Photographs? I actually queried that one for two years. That's how strongly I felt - feel - about it. If I was in my twenties, I might still be querying it. However, I was already in my fifties. I had wasted nearly twenty years not writing. After that many rejections, I wasn't about to waste any more time. I just published it myself spring 2020. It was released about the same time as the virus-that-must-not-be-named. It was like being kicked in the teeth, and it broke a part of me. I had this amazing book and couldn't do what I wanted to do to promote it. To this day, outside of the valley where I live, few have yet to find Photographs. I still hold out hope that they will. 

“Are you the agent?” the man asked.

“I am.”

“What did you need?”

“Are you Director Eggars?”

“Yes,” he answered, but his expression never softened. He wasn’t angry, but far from friendly. “What did you need?”

“I apologize for bothering you.”

“Ma’am,” he said. “I’m giving you one last shot at this, and then I’m going to walk away.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice failing her. “It’s about the house.”

“So I heard. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” she replied. 

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He removed his hands from his pockets and began to move. “Have a nice day.”

“Wait!” Joanna found her voice. She removed her key from the ignition and opened her door.

“Please don’t get out,” the director held up his hands to stop her. Joanna paused. Her door was open, and she had one leg out of the car. “I’m happy to hear there’s nothing wrong with the house. We’ve moved away and moved on. There’s nothing more that I want to hear about that place.”

“Why?”

He ran his fingers through his thick auburn hair in frustration before responding. “Ma’am,” he began. “You seem like a nice lady, and I don’t want to be mean. Please just go away. I don’t want to talk about that God-damned house.”

Damned? Not simply damn?

“Something happened,” she said. “Didn’t it?”

The director said nothing. He just stared at her. Joanna stared back, but made no move to get out of the car or right back in. The director once again placed his hands inside his pockets. 

That voice in her head was not only accusing her but was condemning her now as well. She took a deep breath, unsure of her next move.

The director shook his head slowly and repeatedly as if something were dawning on him. “Please don’t tell me you ended up in that pool!”

Joanna felt as if he had slapped her. “How did you know that?” she whispered.

The director approached her door. Joanna found herself retreating back inside and closing her door between them. He set his hands there upon her door and leaned close. “Get away from there,” he said. “It would have killed my wife if I hadn’t heard a splash and pulled her out. I don’t know who saved you, but do yourself a favor, Miss Johnson, and don’t ever fucking go back there. All she did was prune the bushes and stare at that damned pool.” He took Joanna’s hand and cradled it gently in both of his. “Please! “I’m begging you. Don’t ever go back.”

One night, two extraordinary women meet. Both carry broken hearts and one has been dead sixty years. Clues are revealed in a series of long-lost Photographs.