Be careful what you touch.


My name is Darla, and people think I’m weird. I know this because I’m a telepath.


After my second husband bails without a word, I’m moving back to my hometown, San Marcos, Florida, one of the nation’s oldest cities.


I’m here to open a nearly 300-year-old inn, and, hopefully, begin a new life. It turns out the inn comes with ghosts and other supernatural features. And the paranormal in my genes is going haywire.


My telepathy has always been hit or miss. But now, along with the arrival of my first hot flashes, I gain a new ability: psychometry. By touching an object, I can read the thoughts and emotions of other people who have touched it.


Good thoughts as well as creepy thoughts. Sweet emotions as well as memories of murder.


Yep, I help a detective investigate a murder. And not a bad-looking detective, I should add.


Living in an ancient city and running an old inn, I’m constantly touching things filled with memories.


And some of them could kill me.


Enter a world of mystery, magic, murder, and mischief, with ties to the Freaky Florida humorous paranormal series.

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Keep your hands to yourself.


There I go again, touching things I shouldn’t.


A knife my antique-dealer mother bought at an estate sale holds the memories of a terrified young woman about to be abducted by a werewolf.


You see, I’m a psychometrist. I can read the memories people leave behind on the objects they touch. And this ability gets me into a lot of trouble.


I feel obligated to save the young woman before she is killed. And it turns out that she’s not the first woman this shifter has taken. Nor will she be the last. The others are turning up dead.


I’m a member of the supernatural Memory Guild, but I’m no detective. (I do, however, have a sexy detective helping me.) I’m just a middle-aged innkeeper with a 300-year-old bed-and-breakfast, a witchy mother, and a trouble-prone daughter. All of them demand a lot of attention.


When you throw into the mix an evil necromancer raising the dead, and an ancient magical stone, well, things get wicked complicated.


And I have to solve this mystery before someone else is killed. Namely me.

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Psychic seeking psycho.


My name is Darla, and I’m a psychometrist.


When I touch objects, I pick up the memories and emotions of other people who have touched them.


I was well into my midlife when I was recruited to serve on the Memory Guild, a secret society of supernaturals and paranormals. Based in one of the nation’s oldest cities, the Guild preserves historical memory while fighting lies and conspiracy theories.


And now a psychopath is trying to assassinate the members of the Guild. Including yours truly.


With the reluctant help of a handsome detective, I try to find out who’s behind the attacks. In between that and trying to stay alive, I also have a day job: running a historic bed-and-breakfast. So I’m kind of busy right now.


I don’t need the unplanned trips though a magic portal and the revealed secrets about my second husband who left me. All while dealing with my wacky witch mother and my trouble-prone daughter.


I’m your typical overworked woman. Except I also have a price on my head.

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Nightmare on memory lane.


I’m Darla. I’m a psychometrist. I can read thoughts and emotions left upon objects. Some people call my ability a “gift.” Some people are idiots.


You see, I’m haunted by the young shifter’s thoughts. He was my daughter’s age when he died. I relive his frightening memories when I touch the ruins of the old, abandoned hospital where he was imprisoned.


The memories are over a century old, yet still vivid. They speak of horrible cruelty and neglect. Of evil and murder.


Now I feel obligated to find justice for him, with the help of the Memory Guild. They’re great at uncovering forgotten history.


But they’re no help whatsoever in helping me solve my problems. Like finding my second husband who disappeared (and I don’t mean metaphorically), without offending the dreamy detective who wants to be more than friends.


Or, teaching my daughter how to help me at my historic inn, without her burning the place down.


Or, making sure my inn’s own resident ghosts behave, without encouraging the Elvis impersonator’s spirit to sing “Hound Dog” at 3:00 a.m.


I’d always believed that in middle age I’d be living the good life. Instead, I’m living the psychic life. Of magic, mayhem, and murder.

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© 2021 by Ward Parker.