Title: FROM CHILDHOOD'S HOUR
Genre: YA Paranormal thriller
Word Count: 50,000
Fifteen-year-old Lydia Thompson is schizophrenic. Growing up, she has been plagued by hallucinations of the same man chasing her during a walk to school and showing up outside her bedroom window. He was always around. It isn’t until Lydia spots a hottie ghost in her backyard that her drunk mother decides to take action and put her daughter on meds.
Things only get worse, however, when the ghost shows up in her class and her best friend Lee can see him as if he’s a real person. Lydia is losing time and her sanity. Just like recollections of her childhood, chunks of her short-term memory disappear. She can’t remember her first kiss with Lee, among other things.
When her mom dies and Lydia is put into foster care, she decides to let Lee go, for his sake. She doesn’t want him wrapped up in her craziness. But Lee has a mind of his own and races after her one day and ends up getting hit by a truck.
Lydia finds herself in the middle of a battle. She is what The Collaborators—people who work in the afterlife—are fighting over. Lydia’s imminent death looms and she must choose a side. She can pick to work with The Reapers taking souls or end up in Dominick’s Netherworld as his follower, giving people on Earth Cancer, pain, and all the other tortures this world has to offer.
She knows which option she would choose, but Dominick—the man that has afflicted her childhood “hallucinations”—has a leg up. He’s the one killing people around her and he’ll only stop if she’ll join him.
Lydia is torn between fighting for the future of her afterlife and the life of the boys she loves.
FROM CHILDHOOD’S HOUR is a 50,000-word YA paranormal thriller, a mesh between Dead Like Me and Lost Girl. Also, it has a THE UNBECOMING OF MARA DYER feel.
My mother slapped strings of bacon into a pan with her fingertips, her usual glazed look set in her eyes.
With a dose of anti-psychotic meds on my tongue, I tipped some water into my mouth, swallowing it, and watched her. The breakfast nook stood at chin-level, so I rested mine on it and curled my lip at the smell of the popping meat. “You know I’ve converted to vegetarianism, right? I’m not going to eat that crap.”
Mom swiveled her head toward me lazily, like someone had pressed her slow motion button. She was always in slow motion in the mornings. If she was up at all. Her look was full of steel, mascara smudged over the corner of her eye from sleep. “Why am I making this then?” she spat, placing a hand on her thin hip. “I won’t eat it. I think I picked up that damn stomach bug again.” She flicked off the burner and stared down at the slices of meat like someone scrutinizing a murder scene. Her mouth curled over her deteriorated teeth. She should go get them pulled out. It wasn’t like she didn’t have the money to.
“It’s not called a stomach bug, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes. She always put out the hypochondria bit. “It’s called being hung over. Either that, or you need to cut back on your Valium.”