Tyranny Hovey

Fifteen years ago, Kenna McIntosh swore she’d never return to Giggle Water Creek.
Now her grandfather has vanished—and the town she once called home is more twisted than she remembers. Friends lie. The pipes whisper. A centuries-old book is missing. And her mother’s ghost? She’s back from the grave, furious, and impossible to ignore.
Every shadow hides a secret. Every secret has teeth.
And if Kenna wants answers, she’ll need more than sarcasm and caffeine—she’ll need the courage to face a town that never forgot her… and never forgave her.
Giggle Water Creek isn’t just haunted. It’s hungry.

It was supposed to be a relaxing vacation.
Vivienne needed a get away from the stress of her life. Having heard her best friend sing the praises of Helen, GA. she decided to spend a week in cute cabin and decompress. Instead her dreams are invaded by a mysterious sensual man with swirling purple eyes. Soon she wonders if he’s more than just the man of her dreams.

Holly Leefe has seen it all. Being a medium keeps life interesting. Not that it needed any help. She already had a psychic for a husband and a clairsentient teenage daughter. Data analyst by day, ghost hunter by night. Unless it was football season. She did live in Texas after all.
This fall Holly and her husband Jesse are trying to help a widower and his fiancé discover why suddenly stilettos are being thrown through their TV. Plus a few other nuisance cases. As if helping the dead and raising a teenager wasn’t enough, the ghost of her grandmother won’t rest until the family home is returned to its 1980’s glory.

I’ve seen the living; I’ve seen the dead. I’ve seen angels and I’ve seen demons. No matter how many malevolent or benevolent beings I interacted with, none could terrify me as much as the spirit that walked through the door into the kitchen where I was cooking dinner. Mentally bracing myself, I stirred in chili powder to the ground beef on the stove before I acknowledged the woman that was now looking over my shoulder.
“That’s too much seasoning. It’s going to be too spicy.” I turned to face the food police. “You need to call your mother.” It was an order, not a request. I raised an eyebrow, inviting her to explain. “She won’t listen to reason.”
“Are you two still feuding?” She had been fighting with my mother for the last two and a half years. I’d inherited the “gift” from my mother who had gotten it from my grandmother and so on and so forth. They didn’t need me to pass messages back and forth. She seemed to have forgotten that I had refused to get involved.