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Scary Modsters… and Creepy Freaks
A fantastical romance involving a girl, the music that fuels her, and her Ouija board.
Rosalyn possesses a sunny personality that is laced with quirks. Although she seeks acceptance in a world where she lives out of time, what she gets is ridiculed for her eclectic wardrobe and unconventional music collection.
One fateful night, Rosalyn bewitches Niles, a stylish man whose offbeat character perfectly complements her own. Unfortunately, he possesses a critical flaw that means relationship suicide for him and pretty much anyone.
While under the influence of insomnia-impaired judgment, Rosalyn summons Rock ‘n Roll deity Peter Lane back from the dead. Not only does he spin her hormones into a frenzy, Peter is also the precarious puzzle piece that brings sense into her world. When Niles learns that he can overcome his life-long challenge by helping Peter avenge his death, how far will he go to secure Rosalyn’s heart?
Enjoying San Francisco as a backdrop, the ghosts in Diane’s 150-year old Victorian home augment the chorus in her head. With insomnia as their catalyst, these voices have become multifarious characters that haunt her well into the sun’s crowning hours, refusing to let go until they have manipulated her into succumbing to their whims. Her experiences as an actress, business owner, artisan cake designer, software project manager, Internet radio disc jockey, vintage rock n’ roll journalist/fangirl, and lover of dark and quirky personalities influence her idiosyncratic writing.
May 13, 1966 was a day that most wouldn’t give a turnip over. Take a look at this picture. You see that guy? The smarmy, dark-haired young businessman sitting behind that big wood desk? That’s Ben Stoddard, or as he likes to call himself, Big Ben. I refer to him as Mr. B.S. He’s the one who took me. I mean he took everything—my career, my happiness, the girl I loved, and my life.
Now look to those four young lads sitting across from him—the ones that seem as if they’ve never had a penny to their names. The ones eager to sign on that dotted line. That handsome devil with the sandy blonde hair and the stupid grin—that’s me, Peter Lane; singer, guitarist, huge chump, and idiot extraordinaire. I was on top of the world at that moment. We all were. You know that witticism about how you have to be careful that you don’t sign your life away? It’s no joke because that’s exactly what I was doing.
We had just been given a new car, a swanky apartment, and unlimited credit at all the fancy boutiques on Carnaby Street. You’ve heard of Carnaby, right? The place where every self-respecting mod paid too much for clothes he couldn’t afford even if they had been offered at fair prices. We were told to dress like we owned the world because we soon would. A tour was being planned so we could conquer America just like The Beatles had. All we had to do was sign on that little piece of paper you see on Mr. B.S.’s desk. We signed it in blue ink from a fountain pen—but had we known whom we were dealing with we would have pricked ourselves and used blood.
Two years later I was hovering above my casket, watching people lower my body into a dark, dirt hole, and cringing at how the once beautiful man had become broken, burnt to a crisp, and about to be devoured by worms.
Everyone thought it was an accident.
Then and there I vowed revenge. Plotting it was easy, but finding my way back was another story.