We are thrilled to welcome back author Channing Whitaker to Omnimystery News.
Last month Channing gave us the backstory to his new mystery Until the Sun Rises (Dark Oak Mysteries; March 2015 trade paperback and ebook formats) and earlier this week we had a chance to catch up with him to talk more about the book. Today we're pleased to present you with an excerpt from it, the first chapter.
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TWO CREWMEN, BRIAN AND JEFF, stood on the front stoop of an aged, Dutch Colonial mansion in severe disrepair. Both men placed large lights onto stands directed at the boarded-over front door. Jeff inspected the nearest window for a glimpse inside, but the glass was veiled with filth.
Jeff shivered. "This place gives me the creeps."
"I'll be glad when the night's over."
Seconds later, a muffled, cracking noise caught Jeff's attention. He stopped and surveyed the area. The noise faded. As Jeff returned to his work, a large wood beam fell from the overhang three stories above and slammed on the steps striking mere inches from the men. Both fell backward and tumbled to the ground. Neither could stand. They stared at the debris silently. A soft voice from behind broke their shared stupor.
"That's exactly where the young couple died. Where you're lying now, that's where their bodies were found." The men locked eyes then scrambled to their feet. Turning, they found a woman standing, her face and features hidden in the shadow of the house.
Jeff squinted. "Are you that psychic?"
"That's right." She stepped forward. "Madam La Claire." "Can you sense anything here?" Brian asked.
La Claire closed her eyes and reached for the stoop. Both men were mesmerized with anticipation. She let her fingertips gently dance on the wood. "Oh that's terrible," she uttered under her breath.
The men grew further excited.
Jeff couldn't wait any longer. "What? What is it?"
"It's — " she began, but before elaborating she opened her eyes. "Maybe I should save it for the cameras. Don't you think?" She smiled. Jeff and Brian sighed. La Claire turned and spoke over her shoulder as she walked away, "I just wouldn't stay up there any longer than you have to."
As turbulence interrupted what had been a smooth flight, Walter Resnick awoke among twenty passengers aboard a small charter jet. Walter, a handsome gentleman in his fifties, had salt-and-pepper hair, a dominant jaw line, and wore a pristine, custom-made suit. Yawning, he slid one hand over his hair to ensure nothing had fallen astray. He straightened his tie and scanned the cabin, exchanging nods with sleekly dressed television, marketing, and advertising executives while skimming over assistants and below-the-line crew — the less important people in his view. Many seats were empty.
Eventually, Walter's gaze fell on the smooth and flawless medium brown legs of the knockout actress seated across the aisle.
Audrey Donahue was tall, trim, and curvaceous with long, straight black hair. Her features and skin tone suggested she was of Asian descent, but her natural blue eyes indicated this was only partially true. Her clothes were tight and revealing, which only encouraged Walter's attention. Oblivious to Walter, Audrey methodically thumbed through a tabloid magazine. Walter's gaze lingered as she shifted from one crossed leg to the other, then licked the tip of her finger and flipped another page. Walter smiled, checked his watch, and then let his eyes drift closed again. The designer fragrance Audrey wore kept her impression fresh in Walter's mind long after his gaze had strayed.
Less than a minute passed before the jet lurched once more, this time severely. Irritated, Walter abandoned hope of catching further shuteye. The aircraft's intercom interrupted the cabin.
"This is your captain speaking, folks. We'll be landing in approximately 30 minutes. As we descend through the cloud layer, we're anticipating a few more bumps and shakes. It'd be a good idea for everyone to make their way to their seats and buckle up."
Walter glanced out the cabin window seeing only a complete saturation of thick, fluffy white. Beside him sat Jason, a young man dressed in a cheap suit who, in spite of all the disturbances, remained in slumber. With a frown, Walter jabbed his elbow sharply into the young man's side. When Jason jumped to attention, Walter's expression grew innocent as he feigned another yawn. "Oh, excuse me." Jason's hair was flattened where it had rested on the wall. Still groggy, he slid a cellphone out of his jacket pocket and futilely checked for messages, forgetting he'd turned off reception prior to takeoff. Walter interrupted him. "We've still got a little time. Why don't you hand me those scripts?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Resnick." Jason pulled a briefcase from under the seat to his lap and fumbled through a cluttered jumble of documents. Scraps of paper escaped the chaos and drifted to the floor. Walter rolled his eyes and sighed. Not expecting the pages anytime soon, his attention fell on black and white images dancing on the laptop set before the passenger seated across the aisle one row ahead.
Harlan Holt, a man just shy of 30 with a collared shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, paused the video playing on his computer. He minimized the viewer window revealing a music player program. The last track of a playlist was highlighted. Harlan double clicked back at the beginning and straightened a pair of headphones on his ears. As a down-tempo, hip-hop tune began, Harlan restored the video player. Immediately, a frozen man in sepia tint snapped into action. The picture was choppy with vertical streaking, characteristic of worn film prints. A title card broke the action reading, "For my next trick, I'll require a volunteer from the audience." Harlan couldn't help but grin at the contrast between the modern soundtrack and the pre-sound era visual that he'd inadvertently paired as the magician executed a basic disappearing ball trick from the grasp of a child's hand. Harlan daydreamed, pondering whether there might be a market for old silent films scored by one of today's rap mogul producers: the RZA presents Charlie Chaplin's "City Lights." Harlan dismissed the notion with another chuckle, for now, and refocused on his work.
The figure in the old film was dressed in a black tuxedo, along with dark, mysterious eye makeup. The look made his facial expressions distinct and exceedingly sinister, though he performed for an audience composed entirely of children. The character pointed to his shadow on the wall behind him. The movie cut to another title card, and then to a close shot on the dancing silhouette. First, a few shadow animals were created: a rabbit, a dog, even a gorilla, but soon the entire shadow turned from a man with extended arms into the silhouette of a medieval knight, complete with sword and shield, and mounted on a horse. The video cut out momentarily, then stuttered and resumed as a blurred shot that slowly returned to focus.
A folder containing documents, periodical photocopies, and a half-filled notepad rested in Harlan's lap with a pen clipped over the front flap. Harlan moved the notepad to the top of the stack. The exposed page was filled top to bottom with handwritten notes. The last stood out larger than the rest and was underlined, "Death Shows?" On the next fresh page Harlan scribbled, "Thank Tom at the Film Institute for digitizing the Malvern archive." This too was underlined before Harlan went on to write, "Magic show filmed 1925."
On the screen, the shadow knight encountered the outline of a dragon twice as tall and wider than him. The shadow dragon's mouth opened and tendrils of fire rolled outward. The shadow knight raised his shield, and the flames bent around it. When the blaze subsided, the knight thrust forward, impaling the dragon. Its silhouette melted away. The figure of a long-haired, long-gowned, and buxom woman with a crown atop her head was revealed in its place. As the knight lifted the princess to the back of his steed, all the shapes blurred and returned to a single simple shadow of the magician. "And They Lived Happily Ever After" followed on a title card before the film returned to a wide shot of the magician and audience.
The children applauded. The magician paused for their accolades, briefly, then contorted his body. His shadow took the shape of the dragon, larger than before. Harlan leaned toward the screen to see the poorly focused shape. Abruptly, the magician dashed forward, and the dragon appeared to spring toward the crowd. The children jumped. Many hid under their seats, others cried. Even Harlan jumped in his seat, snapping back from the screen.
The magician broke his dragon pose, laughing, and proceeded to comfort the youthful audience, luring them back to their seats. A beautiful woman, smiling broadly, joined the magician on stage rolling a waist-high metal hoop. The audience settled and clapped, welcoming her.
Behind Harlan, Walter's attention drifted, but he caught the appearance of the woman out of the corner of his eye. His interest was reinvigorated. Harlan and Walter both observed as the magician instructed the beauty to lie down on the floor before him. He waved his hands over her and, after another title card bearing a few nonsense words of spell casting, the woman rose from the floor. Her body remained horizontal and rigid. The magician continued waving his fingers until the beauty had levitated above his head. He lowered his hands and grinned. The woman remained aloft. The audience was motionless in wonder. Next, the magician grasped the metal hoop at his feet, lifted, and proceeded to slide it back and forth over his assistant's body, never touching her or any other noticeable obstructions.
"No Wires" cut in from yet another card. The audience in the film applauded. Behind Harlan, Walter chuckled faintly, but Harlan didn't notice over his headphones. Harlan yawned while he wrote a note reading, "standard tricks." As the magician passed the hoop over the suspended beauty again, her feet and legs slowly disappeared up to the position of the hoop. When he reached her waist, only half a woman remained hovering above. Harlan paused his writing. The magician quickly slid the hoop back to the woman's feet so most of her legs reappeared, but just as swiftly he reversed and slid the hoop all the way up and past her head. Again, her body disappeared as the hoop passed over, resulting in her total absence from the stage.
Harlan stared at the screen in awe. This time he heard "Wow!" from behind him even over his music. Harlan glanced over his shoulder and caught Walter wincing in embarrassment. His sudden outburst had drawn every other passenger's attention. The moment of tension was broken when the jet took another hard lurch and everyone's concern shifted to the nearest window.
Harlan grinned and turned back to the screen. The magician brought the same hoop up above himself, holding it with both hands, like an oversized halo. He then released the hoop, allowing it to fall over him. Just as with the beauty, when the hoop passed around him, his body incrementally disappeared; first his head, then his shoulders, followed by his torso, legs and feet, all in the second it took the hoop to fall to the stage floor.
With the stage empty, the audience on screen was stunned, but soon broke into ovation. There was no sound of cheering, only the backs of children barely able to stay in their seats as they clapped and appeared to shout. Soon after, two hands appeared in the center of the hoop on the floor. The disembodied appendages split and slid right and left, then gripped the hoop. The magician's head, shoulders, and elbows followed as he lifted himself from the hoop's center as if it were a hole in the stage floor. When he finally climbed out and onto the stage, he kicked the hoop with his toe as he took a sliding step toward it. He stumbled, off balance, and flailed as if teetering on an edge. With the impression of a hole remaining it appeared the magician would fall in the opening. Surprisingly, his feet found only solid floor where the hole had been.
The film's crowd jumped up and down, and the magician bowed several times before he drew a single finger up to the side of his mouth. His smile became perplexed. A title card interrupted once more. "Have I Forgotten Something?" The children spilled into the aisles with excitement, yelling. "The Woman" popped up on the next card. Nodding his understanding, the magician lifted the hoop beside him, looked at it curiously, flipped it one way then the other, and finally lifted it above his head, but to the side. As he slowly lowered it from ceiling to floor, the beauty reappeared from head to toe. Another round of applause began. The magician and woman took a final bow before a curtain dropped.
The video ended and cut to a selection menu with a few other clips. Harlan slid his headphones down around his neck. After a moment of contemplation, Harlan looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Walter, who simply shook his head, impressed. Harlan nodded his own veneration, then turned to his notes and rapidly filled the rest of the page. Walter stretched forward to peer onto Harlan's notes, but from a distance, Harlan's hurried cursive was impossible to decipher. Walter did manage to make out the last word on the page as Harlan printed it in all caps, "KILLER?"
The jet made one last lurch, then every window snapped from white to blue. Harlan stowed his computer and shifted his notes off the top of the file. Opening the first document, he flipped through a few pages of text then slid the report to the bottom of the pile. The next had a close-up photo with the face of the magician, titled "Malvern Kamrar." After reading the single-page of biographical text, Harlan flipped this document to the bottom as well and proceeded to skim several newspaper clippings. One bore the headline, "Magic Show Appears Spectacular" and was followed with an action photo of the magician, mid-illusion. Next was an old advertisement with "Malvern Kamrar, Master of Shadows" on top, with Malvern in a spooky, spell-casting pose, surrounded by shadow figures in the middle, and with "Tonight Only" written beneath them.
Harlan passed through several similar clippings regarding the magician. The final clipping was a front-page article from the Des Moines Register dated 1933. The headline read, "Heir to Drake Fortune and Family Missing." The photo included was a family portrait with a father and son seated, a mother and daughter standing behind them, and another toddler son on the father's knee. All were dressed in stiff, uncomfortable-looking clothes. Harlan noted there wasn't a smile among them.
After skimming the article, Harlan moved to the last document in his file but was disrupted by a commotion in the cabin. Most of the passengers across the aisle abandoned their seats to lean and peer out windows on Harlan's side of the jet. Behind him, Walter leaned over the actress Audrey's seat and casually placed a hand on her shoulder, seemingly to steady himself. She, too, leaned toward the window to see the spectacle. The window seat beside Harlan was empty. He unclipped his seatbelt and slid over. However, Harlan took the time to fasten his belt in the new seat.
The jet descended rapidly over a small town. The surrounding area was filled with neatly shaped acres of crops. Harlan smiled. He'd always appreciated the geometric aesthetic of farms from high above. In the town, many houses and small buildings were organized on a neat grid of north to south and intersecting east to west streets. At the center of town, however, the pattern was broken by a large, clocktower-topped courthouse, surrounded by a courtyard of green grass and a town square filled with storefronts. Besides a stream running through part of the town, only one other anomaly stood out from the ordered landscape — a huge three-story mansion, complete with a long rear courtyard and a carriage house, all surrounded by a tall, wrought-iron fence. The vector of the jet's landing brought the mansion estate closer and closer to view, on course to pass almost directly below them.
As the motors of the landing gear engaged, the jet vibrated and increased its downward slant. Many of the unseated passengers stumbled and had to grab for something to steady their stances. Walter's something was Audrey's lap. She squealed in surprise as Walter exclaimed, "Oh, pardon me," but they both laughed off the awkwardness.
Harlan mumbled to himself, "This is why we have seat belts." He turned back to the window. The mansion property was very clear. The house had patches of missing roof tiles and appeared terribly rundown. Harlan flipped open his file to that last document and found several photos of the same mansion among pages of text. He glanced back and forth from the images to the property outside.
The photos spanned decades, each with a different degree of dilapidation and overgrowth. On the ground outside, however, there was also a buzz of people, cars, camera trucks, trailers, and broadcast equipment populating the mansion's front and rear lawn. In the shadow of the grand house, crewmen ran cables between production vehicles to a massive generator trailer just outside the back corner of the property. The mansion slipped out of sight behind the tail of the jet. Moments later, the tires found the pavement of a runway, and the charter jet slowed to a meager, taxiing speed.
Audrey was the first off the jet. She removed a pair of sunglasses, nearly equal in size to her tank top, from a handbag and covered her eyes as she descended a mobile stairway. Lenox, a young, female production assistant with a walkie-talkie in hand, directed her to three rental vans waiting beside the runway.
"All my bags are up there." Audrey spoke without looking at Lenox directly. Walter, his assistant Jason, and many of the other passengers impatiently packed in at the exit, trying to edge in front of one another. Harlan waited for the rest to clear the aisle, seeing no need to rush to the exit just to wait in line to get out. Calmly, Harlan organized and re-filed the pages into a bag with his computer. Once he had the cabin to himself, he stood, pulled a small piece of luggage from an overhead compartment, and stepped to the front. A narrow closet was near the doorway with a single green sport coat draped on one of two-dozen hangers. Harlan grabbed the jacket and put it on before exiting the aircraft.
Outside, Harlan noted the small size of the airport. There were several crop-dusting propeller planes but no terminal. Lettering on the front of one hangar read, "Shadows Bend Municipal Airport." Nothing Harlan could see, not even the buildings, were as large as the 30-seat jet they'd just flown in on. He found it odd such a small facility would have a runway long enough to accommodate this aircraft. Harlan smiled and took a moment to holler, "Thank you," back to the exiting flight crew. After leaving the airport's drive, Harlan and the other van passengers were greeted by a bullet-dented road sign: "Welcome to Shadows Bend."
The convoy of vans arrived at the mansion estate and all the passengers from the jet filed out. On the street, a truck with a mast on its roof held a satellite dish forty feet in the air. Harlan's attention was drawn to the rotting wooden planks nailed across the mansion's front door. Many shutters were askew, broken, or missing. Several windows were cracked and one corner of the roof overhang was crumbling. As he surveyed the ominous manor, his eyes landed on the topmost window, tucked away between the pitches of the roof on either side. Unlike all the other broad rectangle windows in the lower floors, this one was small and round. Its placement made it virtually unnoticeable, yet when Harlan examined the features carefully, the window stood out as an architectural misfit. Harlan's gaze lingered until the sound of a low-flying jet interrupted him. He turned to see a charter, almost identical to his earlier transport, on a similar path dropping over the property, bound for the local airstrip.
Harlan stood alone, just outside the bustle of activity on the mansion grounds. The vans were gone. Having lost the group, Harlan looked around, not sure where to go, but Lenox came running back. She arrived out of breath. "Mr. Holt," she paused for air, "let me show you to your trailer." "Trailer?" he asked.
"You can settle in there until they're ready in makeup."
"Makeup?"
"Yeah, we're only about an hour from going live, and they'll have to get you prepped with the equipment, too, so it won't be long."
The thought of gunk on his face was the opposite of thrilling for Harlan. Resistance was his immediate impulse, but he decided not to protest. He would concede, and let this young woman get back to the long list of tasks he figured she was swamped with. "Lead the way."
After stowing his bags and taking a seat in the small chamber, one of three dressing rooms in this particular trailer unit, there was a rap at the door.
"Yeah?" Harlan hardly got the word out before the door swung open to reveal Walter. He showed himself to the only other seat in the room. Walter carried a bound set of pages. His face appeared different than on the plane. Close-up, Harlan concluded the addition of makeup had altered his complexion and masked some age.
"I don't think we were introduced on the jet." He extended his hand. "Walter."
"Of course, I'm Harlan."
"Holt, right? The archaeologist?"
"The name is accurate, but it's anthropologist."
With a nod, Walter made a note in his pages. "Right, right, my mistake, I just wanted to get all the facts straight before we go on the air. Is there anything more to be said for your studies? Do you have a specialization or something like that?"
"My research involves supernatural and occult beliefs. Mostly I examine western civilizations in more recent periods, limited to the last 200 years, though in many instances, veins of cultural beliefs go back to the beginning of western religions. I think anthropologists are equal parts historians, scientists, and psychologists, so my work deals with people's beliefs from all three angles."
Walter bore an expression of deep concentration, complemented by a nod of understanding he had perfected over many years of TV interviews while paying almost no actual attention to Harlan's elaboration. "Now, let's see, you...are...the skeptic, right?"
Harlan smiled. "I'm many things, Walter — academic, lover, critical thinker, gourmet coffee aficionado, microbrew enthusiast — but I suppose in this instance skeptic is as practical a label as any."
Walter rattled off another dozen biographical questions to Harlan. Once concluded, he thanked Harlan and moved to step out.
Harlan raised an open palm. "Hold on a moment, Walter. I have a couple of questions for you."
"Fire, buddy." Walter returned to his seat.
"As both executive producer and host of this show, whatever happens it seems to me you'll be the one with the closing words, right? You'll be summing up the night." Walter agreed. "I have a fair idea how paranormal-themed shows use camera tricks and editing to create the impression of seeing something which was never actually on screen. I'm also quite familiar with how shows can spin even the most minimal suggestion of something eerie into a statement of lingering mystery."
Harlan impersonated a television host. "Like seeing a simple shadow and exclaiming, 'was it just the cameraman's silhouette or was it something more? We may never know.' When in fact, there was no actual question about it."
Walter grinned and nodded again. Harlan went on. "The way I see it, you and the other producers brought me in here to provide a voice of skepticism as a contrast to the abundant voices of speculation. Of course, I am prepared to be shown something that is truly beyond the scope of normal scientific understanding. I'm always open to it, but I suspect that will not happen, and should it not, I'd like to request that you compose your closing words... I don't want to say truthfully, but... straightforwardly. Since I happen to know you are a veteran of TV journalism, and had a long career in broadcast news before you became an entertainment producer, I'd just ask you to comment like a journalist, only on the facts, and don't spin the events to imply the show had more mystical significance than it did. Can you do that?"
Walter looked him in the eyes. "I don't have an agenda on the matter, Harlan. I'm just interested in seeing what happens and getting to the bottom of this mystery if we can. That's all. I'll call it straight. You have my word on that." Walter extended his hand and Harlan shook it with a satisfied smile before Walter left the trailer.
Lenox waited outside and escorted Harlan to the dreaded makeup trailer. Before stepping in, they waited for Audrey to step out. Her hair was curled, makeup perfected, and she'd changed into a shimmering blouse, short skirt, and heels. "Not very practical," Harlan commented to his escort, who was delighted but held her chuckle until Audrey passed out of earshot.
Lenox shouted, "Stepping!" as she guided Harlan in.
Upon sitting, Harlan requested, "As little as possible."
Harlan's next stop was a truck set outside the village of trailers. He sensed uneasiness among all the crew people he passed along the way, though many words of "Good luck" and "Be careful in there" were uttered. As the sun dropped in the west, the shadow of the mansion engulfed the entire camp. Inside the truck, a burly man showed Harlan to a workbench full of parts, wires, and tools. "The name's John, son, but everyone around the set calls me Bomber. Don't ask."
"Bomber it is."
"Now, when y'all are in there, you'll be outfitted with one of these babies." Bomber pulled a chaotic-looking jumble of parts out of a plastic crate. "I built 'em myself. It's a hard hat that's for your protection, but here on the front we have an LED flashlight. It's small, but at least it can run all night on one charge. Of course, the best part is this." He pointed to a lens above the forward brim. "It's a high-def camera, right here on the front, that transmits wirelessly. You'll each have one, so basically we'll see what you see, as long as you're wearing it, and the whole thing weighs less than two pounds." Bomber plopped the helmet onto Harlan's head. "Comfy?"
"I'll live."
"There's a good sport." He slapped the hat twice, apparently checking that it was in fact hard, and jammed it farther down on Harlan's head. "Now let's try 'er out." He flipped a switch then leaned over to adjust a channel selector on a small monitor near the workbench. Video of the inside of the truck came up on the screen. "Looks good," Bomber announced with satisfaction. Harlan looked over at Bomber as he spoke and immediately Bomber's smiling face popped up on the monitor. "That's enough of that." Bomber switched the camera back off. "Now if ya feel right up here on the side," he grabbed Harlan's hand and guided it to another switch, "you'll notice the button for your light."
After flipping the switch, a dim beam projected a circle from Harlan's head onto the wall. It moved left and right as Harlan turned side to side until he reached back up and switched it off. "All set." Bomber patted the helmet again.
"Will these be the only cameras in the house?"
"Not on your life. Here, I'll show ya." He beckoned Harlan to follow him out of the truck and into a semi trailer beside it. With the press of a button, lights snapped on inside, revealing an entire mobile shop, at the center of which sat a pillar with a wide base which was as tall as a person. Bomber pointed as he spoke. "Four HD cameras, each with 90 degree left-to-right and 180 degree up-and-down movement for a full 360 by 360 view. They have lights built in on all sides. Each camera has a night vision mode, heat vision mode, and a few other modes. And, of course, the entire shebang is mobile and self-propelling by RC. We can control 'em from the booth up by the house. We'll have eyes everywhere. I built these custom, and we'll have a half dozen following you guys." Bomber patted Harlan on the back, then flipped the lights off, and showed him out. As Harlan headed back toward the trailers, Bomber called to him, "Good luck," though his words were followed by a notably sadistic chuckle.
Harlan had to meet with several other crewmen. He signed releases, received a tetanus booster, had photos taken, gave another brief interview recorded on camera this time and even stepped into a small cylindrical, green-screen booth with a series of cameras all along its perimeter. Harlan was impressed with the high-tech setup as they latched the door closed on the coffin-sized chamber. Moments later, the whole unit shook, tipping him off balance. "Hey, you're not going to toss me in the nearest lake, are you? I'm not Houdini, you know. At least you didn't cuff and shackle me, so I might have a fighting chance."
An unamused voice cut in through a speaker above, "Hold still, please." Harlan stiffened and held his breath as all the cameras snapped in unison. Seconds later, a computer just outside the cylinder rendered out a moving image of Harlan, with a very cross expression, seemingly frozen in time with the appearance of a single camera tracking around him in free space.
By this point, Harlan had grown fatigued with all the preparatory obligations. He'd thought he would be nervous when the show began, but by the time Lenox tracked him down to announce, "They're ready for you up at the house," Harlan welcomed it warmly.
— ♦ —
Photo provided courtesy of
Channing Whitaker; Photo credit Dave Muller.
Born in Centerville, Iowa, Channing studied cinema, screenwriting, literature, and mathematics at the University of Iowa. He went on to work in the production of television news, independent films, and commercial videos as well as to write for websites, corporate media, and advertising. His nearly 10-year career in writing has taken Channing from Iowa, to Texas, Alaska, and currently to Oklahoma. In that time, Channing has also written and directed over 50 short films. The publication of his debut novel Until the Sun Rises: One Night in Drake Mansion, comes in tandem with the production of his first feature screenplay "KILD TV," also in the mystery/thriller genre, already filmed, and slated for a 2015 release.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at ChanningWhitaker.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
— ♦ —
Until the Sun Rises by Channing Whitaker
A Novel of Supernatural Suspense
Publisher: Dark Oak Mysteries
Eighty years ago, a wealthy Midwest family returned home from a magic show, after which neither they, nor the magician, Malvern Kamrar, were ever heard from again. When several bystanders died in their mansion, the house was sealed.
After nearly a century of rumors and haunted stories, for a live TV event the mansion will be opened, allowing five contestants to spend one night and win their share of a million dollars. The contestants: a psychic, a high-tech ghost hunter, a Hollywood scream queen, a local woman, and a skeptic, fuel excitement as each tries to solve the mystery.
Upon entering, the journal of the family patriarch, Vinton Drake, is discovered, illuminating the mystery, rooted all the way back to Vinton's service as a medic in WWI, when he first met the magician. Departing from the familiar haunted house tale, this story explores the very nature of belief in the supernatural, with consequences more frightening than any ghost story.
Intensity sours when the contestants discover their lives, and thousands more, are in genuine peril. Is the mansion haunted? What fate befell Malvern and the Drake family? And will the contestants uncover the truth in time to save themselves?
— Until the Sun Rises by Channing Whitaker
