Excerpts from CRAZY - A Thriller by Ann Werner

ARK Stories will soon be releasing CRAZY.

It's a book about a serial killer---with a twist. You haven't seen this story before.

Look for it on Amazon (paperback and kindle) in May 2012.

Upon it's release,  a Kindle version will be FREE on Amazon for ONE DAY ONLY!!!!

Stay tuned.......

READ TWO CHAPTERS:

Emily Simonson is a successful chef, store owner and has an eatery on the trendy side of West Los Angeles.
She is six feet tall, blonde and after giving up a career in acting, found her bliss writing cookbooks and running her two related businesses. She has a problem though. Someone out there doesn't like her. Someone out there is looking to make her life a living hell...for the time Emily has left on this earth.

Here is a glimpse into the next ARK Stories release:

TEN

         The Guardian was talking again. It had been a long time since he had had anything to say but now he was back. The Guardian had always been the means to control the world, because the Guardian knew. He knew everything, things that were hidden from others. The Guardian knew when parents and siblings lied. Knew when teachers and employers were plotting behind your back. Whenever this happened, the Guardian stepped in with a warning and a plan of action. And now the Guardian was back. 

            Nobody else knew about the Guardian. He was private, a voice meant only for deserving ears. This had been made plain. To reveal his existence would be the ultimate betrayal and so he was kept secret. As long as he was secret, the protection would continue. The protection and the insights and the solutions. 

            It was hard to remember when the Guardian had first appeared. It was almost like he’d always been there: hovering, protecting, sympathizing when no one else cared. Now the Guardian was a part of everyday life again. He’d gone away for a while, chased by the medication that had made life so unbearable, so bland. It was a relief to have him back. Especially now, when that bitch was everywhere.

            “Have you been keeping up with your lessons?” The voice of the Guardian, soothing and welcome, a reminder of things to remember for self-preservation.

            “Yes. I’ve taken karate, judo and kickboxing, as well as firearms training.”

            “Good. Such skills can come in handy in times such as these.”

            “What else can I do? How else can I defend myself?”

            “There is nothing right now. That woman.... That bitch is out to get you. You know that, don’t you?”

            Head bowed, eyed closed tight against tears that would indicate weakness. A whispered answer, “Yes.”

            “There is no need to fear. She is a weak creature. You are strong. She feels a sense of false security because she spends her days surrounded by people. But we know her weaknesses and her vulnerabilities. We know where she lives.” Silence now as the import of that last statement is allowed to settle in. “I liked what you did with the note and the phone call.”

            A feeling of pride swells from within, for this was an original idea, not formulated and suggested by the Guardian. A smile. “Thank you. I thought it rather clever myself.”

            “Don’t get too cocky!” The Guardian was never one to appreciate self-aggrandizement.

            Then, in a more conciliatory tone,  “But it was rather clever. However, not nearly severe enough. She’s always envied you, you know. And now she’s out to show you that she’s better than you could ever be. But we both know she’s wrong, don’t we?”

            A nod of the head, no words are needed to answer, for the answer is clear. 

            “But it is annoying, is it not, that she gets all this attention? Especially since she’s so unworthy. You should be the one on television. The one being interviewed in the Times. You’ve got more talent in your toenail than that bitch has in her entire body.”

            Beaming, basking in the adulation that is so damned deserved and never forthcoming from those who should bow down and kiss the earth blessed by the touch of such talent.  “She probably fucked the producer of the show. Probably sucked the interviewer.” Warming now to the subject.

            “And that stupid twit Cassandra trying to put her together with that oh-so-pretty-co-host. What in the hell would he see in her anyway? She’s so tall. Looks like a giraffe!”

            Laughing now, at the thought of Emily Simonson with large orange and brown spots all over her big, ugly self.

            “I think she should pay. How about you?”

            “Oh yes. What shall we do?”

            “Oh, we’ll think of something.”

ELEVEN

            It was in a 9 x 12 brown clasp envelope. When Emily pulled it from the tight slot of her mailbox, she hardly noticed it, thinking it was just another piece of junk mail. But then she saw the carefully printed address. In pencil. With no return address.  

            She held it in her hands, remembering the first envelope and then that phone message. Almost without thinking, she checked to see if there were any suspicious bulges or too much tape or anything out of the ordinary, remembering stories seen on the news about letter bombs. There was nothing. It was a perfectly ordinary envelope. Except for that printing.

            She stood there, motionless, in front of the bank of mailboxes, staring at it. All of her other mail slipped unnoticed to the ground. Her stomach clenched into a knot and a ripple of foreboding crawled up her spine, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck

            A car turned into the driveway, jarring Emily out of her trance. Quickly she gathered up her dropped mail and went back along the walk to her apartment. Inside, she threw the other mail on the small table next to the front door, then turned her attention back to the brown envelope. She didn’t want to open it but she had to know what was inside. Again she found herself checking if it contained some sort of harmful device but all that she’d been able to remember from the news stories she’d seen told her this wasn’t a bomb. Still, there remained an irrational fear. 

            She took it into the kitchen and laid it on the counter as she searched the drawers for a pair of tongs and a long knife. She held the envelope in place on the counter with the tongs and slit the flap with the knife. Nothing happened. She inserted the knife into the envelope and held it in place as she opened it with the tongs. From inside she withdrew what looked to be a piece of folded newspaper. Satisfied now that she wasn’t handling an explosive device, Emily put down the knife and tongs and unfolded it.

            It was the cover of the Calendar section from the Times. The one where they’d done the story on her and the Kitchen Witch. Staring back at her was a picture of herself, the name of the restaurant captioned beneath her. Only the person who’d sent this had taped a B over the W in witch. Around her neck a noose had been drawn and a red tongue was painted onto her mouth, hanging out in a cartoon parody of a person strangling. On the front of her blouse a bull's eye had been drawn over her heart and in the center was a dagger, thrust up to the hilt, the blade buried deep. At the bottom of the page was a neatly printed message. “Hey, Kitchen Bitch. I’m watching you!” She went to the phone and dialed the West L.A. Police Station with trembling fingers.