Dark Angel

Chandra West is terrified she’s losing her mind. She keeps seeing the ghostly figure of a man at the end of her bed - when she’s awake! Is it some premonition that she’s next on the Sacramento Shock Killer’s list?


Published: 06/2014
Length: Mid Novel
Word Count: 67,195
Genre: Paranormal/Romantic Suspense
Rating: Sensual/Spicy
Available formats: PDF, RTF, Epub, HTML, Mobipocket (.prc)



L. F. Crawford


© Copyright by L. F. Crawford, June 2014
© Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, June 2014
ISBN 978-1-60394-591-2
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636


This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.


Something shifted in the room. A shadow passed over the night light. She felt like she had a golf ball lodged in her throat. Eyes wide, she bolted upright, heart slamming against her chest.

At the foot of her bed stood a jean-clad man. His body shimmered. Light from his skin spilled across the cedar chest and her guitar. Through him she could see her dresser against the wall, see the mirror and a reflections of his glowing back.

Fear buzzed in her head, "The Shock Killer! Do something!" But she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her gaze slid to the phone, then back to the man.

A ghost? Am I awake? She rubbed her eyes.

He lifted one hand and she tried to scream, but could only manage a squeak. As if oblivious to her fear, he stared at his own shimmering fingers, then at her, his mouth open in amazement.

Why is he amazed? He's in my bedroom! Her gaze flickered to the lock on the door. Still in place. No window to climb through. I'm losing it big time.

She could have imagined him--a rake or a pirate of olden days--one who'd take her with him to the ends of the earth. Thick midnight hair spilled over his shoulders like feathers, the same blue-black color as the hair that spread across his pectorals. The contours of his face were obscured by a brilliant white aura, all but his obsidian eyes which glowed like dark fire. He seemed incredulous, not menacing. Was he a ghost? An apparition? Was she dreaming? She reached cautiously across the bed and grabbed the baseball bat propped against her nightstand. It felt solid and reassuring. Real.

"I don't believe it!" he cried, his voice deep and raw.

His agonized tone wrenched at her insides with some inexplicable force. Neither do I. A stabbing pain like a fist hit her in the abdomen. Felt as though she'd been skewered. She gasped and dropped the bat, leaning forward, her arms crossed protectively as she sucked for breath like a fish caught in a net. She looked down and for a moment swore she saw the hilt of a blade, her own blood seeping out around it. She screamed, tried to move and couldn't. Help. She looked at him.

Concern glimmered in his dark, haunted eyes. He lifted his other hand as though to help her, yet remained at the foot of the bed. Abruptly, the pain vanished, made her wonder if he'd caused and taken it away. Could a person hallucinate visions and pain?

The infinite world in the glimmering depths of his eyes, drew her in, held her, denying the thought. She felt oddly reassured. If he was going to attack her he would have tried by now.

"I've done it!" he cried, his voice mysteriously triumphant.

"What are you talking about?" Despite the feeling he meant no harm, her voice came out shrill, like a scared mouse. "Who are you?" I'm going crazy.

Around his body, the luminous dancing light intensified, blinded her for a moment. "Don't you recognize me, Ciomara?"

Ciomara? He's crazy and a ghost.

"Oh, God, how do I explain?" He gave her a hard look that measured and seemed to find her wanting. "What are you called now?" he demanded, his tone imperious, an arrogant tilt to his chin.

"Chandra." She didn't mean to say her name, it just spilled from her lips, as if he could ask anything of her and she'd give it.