MY FIRST NOVEL

FYI



I KNOW YOU ARE BUSY WITH YOUR OWN LIFE, BUT YOU MAY FIND THIS OF INTEREST.
1. I’ve included Chapters 1 and 2 of my book “See You at the Station” read it for free.
2. Reviews are starting to come in, I included a couple. This way, you don’t waste your time.
3. I have also included dates and locations of scheduled booksignings.
4. Thanks for reading my emails. You are great support people for a new author.


























5.0 out of 5 stars See You at the Station, July 4, 2009
By Larry M. Oneal "L. M. O'Neal "author"" (N.C. USA) - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)

Initial post: Jun 14, 2009 6:53 PM PDT
Roni Knight says:
I personally read this book soon after it came off the press. It is a thriller that takes place in a small town, somewhere. Lake City could be your town or my town. The main charcters in the book are three teenagers, all with extremely different lifestyles. Two are fairly new residents in Lake City, one has been there all his life. The people in most cases are good citizens who thrive on hard work, friendship and love. Then there are the choice few who relish the idea of destroying the loyalty of others. All in all, the people who live in the lake side town are common, understanding folks, all woven with the fabric of love, hope and promise. Chapter after chapter, L.M. Oneal leads our travel through the pages with different episodes of mystery and heart-felt tragady. The book is a page turner from the beginning to the surprising ending. I highly recommend this book, written in a simplistic, understanding that contains no profanity. Teens as well as parents will most certainly enjoy, See you at the Station. Once you read it I am certain you will recommend it to others.

Awand Frebo
Author














BOOK REVIEW
Date: Friday, September 11, 2009, 8:02 PM
“See You at the Station”

A craving for mystery and intrigue has been quenched with going on within "See You at the Station". The author made me feel the presence of the characters, their emotions, fears and even the bewilderment. This book is very skillfully written in a manner to grasp and captivate the reader and leaving you yearning for more, propelling you hastily through to the end, yet forcing you to re-read several chapters to re-experience the agony, misery and pain with a stabbing desire to get a glimpse of yet another twisted episode. My emotions, curiosity and imagination were awakened; I want a sequel. Five Stars




Thomas R. O'Neal


















See You at the Station, August 17, 2009
By C. J. Narron (Kenly, NC) - See all my reviews

The first book in a series, "See You at the Station," tells of a widowed newspaper publisher about to retire and the reporter who bought the publisher's paper and moves his wife and daughter to their new town away from the big city.

O'Neal weaves and intermingles the character's relationships to the others in town, from those most respected in society to those who are scorned and the reader is drawn into the secrets and life choices that they all make.

There are those in the book that are drawn to evil and those that have gifts from God. A little boy named Timmy, born into a bad family and often locked in a dark dirt cellar, desperately longs for a friend. There is only one person, an elderly neighbor that has ever been kind to him, and he is killed the night the reporter's family moves to town. Timmy's left with the darkness for comfort. What he finds there will affect a whole community.

O'Neal graphically displays the war between evil and good for men's souls in the thoughts and actions of each character as they come into view of the reader.

This book shows a lot of promise from this new author from Middlesex, NC and hopefully the next book in this series will be out soon to let his readers know what happens next.

I do recommend this book, be warned that evil can be graphic, but turning a blind eye to abuse is something many 'good' people may have to answer to one day. You'll come to know each of O'Neal's characters and identify with some and you'll want to know how this all plays out.

C.J. Narron
News Editor








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SEE YOU AT THE STATION

CHAPTER 1
“How far away is the past if it returns to warn us of the future?”
L. M. O’Neal

“Michael, you’re not going to believe this.”
“Ricky, you’re the mayor. I believe everything politicians say.”
“Sure, you do, but this time you really do have to listen to me.”
Michael Stone knew Mayor Richard Lloyd could spin a good tale, but today was not the day for time-wasting chats or telephone calls. He had details to round up for the story he was writing. With a deadline drawing near, the wasting of time was something he could not allow, especially today. However, the tone in Mayor Lloyd’s voice got his attention. He really wanted to avoid all telephone calls until he’d finished the article, but something in Mayor Lloyd’s voice made him delay. Knowing, if he terminated the call now Mayor Lloyd would call back until he said what was on his mind, Michael decided to let him continue.
“All right, I’m listening. Go ahead.”
Mayor Lloyd, having captured Michael’s ear, continued. “As you know, I eat breakfast most mornings down here at the café, and I did the same this morning. Well, Sheriff Long and I placed our orders, and we were sitting here waiting, then in walks this fellow. He stops inside the door and just looks around.”
Michael, beginning to feel he’d made a mistake, said, “I hope you are going somewhere with this. I do have other things to do.”
“Yes I am, just listen”. Replied Mayor Lloyd a little too quickly.
“Long and I both noticed he appeared to be looking for someone. Well, he finally comes in, takes a seat only three tables from us, and orders coffee. Then he just sits there staring out the window.”
Michael, now becoming annoyed, made it known to Mayor Lloyd his patience was running out by first clearing his throat.
“Get to the point, Ricky.”
“Okay, the point is, he’s carrying an old fishing rod.”
The mention of the fishing rod was enough to convenience Michael this telephone call needed to be over quickly and in such away Mayor Lloyd would not call back today with another fish story.
“Ricky, this is
Lake City
. We are a town on the edge of a lake. Sooner or later someone is bound to show up at the café with a fishing rod.”
Michaels’ annoyance came through loud and clear. Now it was Mayor Lloyd’s turn to be annoyed.
“The fishing rod is not the point. The point is he looked identical to Bill Rayller. He didn’t just look like him, he walked like him, and he even wore the same kind of hat. I’m telling you, I could swear it was Bill Rayller.”
Michael’s annoyance suddenly evaporated at the mention of Bill Rayller. It caused a shiver to run his spine.
“Did you or the sheriff ask who he was?”
“No. The sheriff had to go, and I didn’t know what kind of person this was that would make himself up to look like Bill. For all I know, he could have been some escapee or something. Oh, one more thing, when he left he did what Bill always did, he left a fish for a tip.
Look, Mike, I have to go. Sheriff Long just walked in, and I need to talk to him about this. Michael, I thought you might want to know, so let me know if you can make sense of all this. Call me later, okay, buddy?”
Before Michael could ask more questions, Mayor Lloyd disconnected, leaving Michael Stone holding the telephone.
Michael forgot his small local newspaper, The Republic, purchased by him and his wife, Kathryn. When they purchased the newspaper, their daughter Michelle was only five years old. He did not comprehend his office, where he had written stacks of articles over the years. Michael sat behind the desk inherited from the previous owner, engulfed in his thoughts. He did not acknowledge the terminated call until the off-hook signal shrieked. The annoying sound quickly brought him back to reality.
Staring at the receiver, Michael wondered why he held it. Absentmindedly, he returned the receiver to its cradle. With eyes focused on nothing of present, Michael remained captured in thought.
Mayor Lloyd could not have seen Mr. Rayller; he’s been dead several years. However, if Mayor Lloyd says he saw who he thinks he saw, that would contradict Mr. Rayller’s death. On the other hand, would it? The entire Rayller family is dead; two by car accident, one with a heart attack, and Mr. Rayller’s granddaughter was murdered.
Stirred by the telephone call from Mayor Lloyd, the memory of the Rayller family stood prominent in his mind. Michael, years earlier, had learned to listen and trust his gut feelings. His gut now told him this was happening for a particular reason.
The memory of Mr. Rayller’s granddaughter, Shelia Rayller, again reasserted itself. The nagging questions, once forced to the rear of his mind, burst forward from the slight crack in the door of memory caused by Mayor Lloyd. Its return came like a tidal wave, sweeping aside everything in his mind as the memories tore through his conscious thought. The sense of urgency increased with such intensity it was frightening. Forcing himself to calm down, he struggled to organize his thoughts.
All of this is abnormal. I have to think logically if I’m going to make sense of what Lloyd said.
Feeling the increasing tension in his body, Michael walked to the bank of file cabinets along the far wall in his office. The files contained all the hard copies of articles written since his purchase of the newspaper. Within the files were not only articles, but also notes, photos, and correspondences.
Duplicated files were stored out of town for safety reasons. The second location offered a level of protection to the paper in the event of fire or some other disaster. It offered no such protection for Michael’s mind.
The horrific stories were always there, just below the surface, waiting to remind him. No newspaper morgue or file cabinets could lock away the most horrific events that lingered in Michaels’ memory.
Each file cabinet contained three to five years of articles. The filing system of Michael’s own design served to confuse uninvited eyes. Using the year his daughter graduated from high school as a reference date, Michael knew where to find what he wanted. He quickly drew out the index sheet, scanned for the dates and coded numbers, and reinserted the index sheet to its proper place. He then removed the desired coded files.
The selected files contained the gruesome discovery of the body, the police investigation notes, follow-up, and the cold-trail stories, all concerning Shelia Rayller.
After placing the files on his desk, Michael took his seat and began refreshing his memory with the details. Within the files of articles, notes, and the pictures resided his torment. Within these folders was hidden every parent’s greatest fear. Michael thanked God his child had been spared, and then prepared his mind to face the results of a demon. With a heavy heart, he opened a file.
First was an article he had constructed from his notes at the crime scene. He glanced at it, and then laid it aside face down. This particular folder contained interviews with the sheriff and deputy at the scene. He scanned the interview notes he had made while talking with Shelia’s neighbors, classmates, and her grandfather. Shelia had no surviving parents, having lost them in an auto accident years earlier. Michael then saw the pictures.
He, himself the photographer, had time enough to take only four shots before the deputy stopped him. When the camera clicked and flashed on the fourth frame, the picture was of the tall grasses to the right of Shelia’s body. When Michael recognized the victim he saw through the eye of the camera, his mind could no longer function as a photographer or reporter. This victim was not just another story.
Having had many years of experience covering crime scenes, he thought he was hardened to any effect of seeing the dead. He failed to consider the impact of seeing the body of someone he had known, murdered. The reality of who this young girl had been caused him to let the camera drop from his eye as it snapped the 4th and final frame. The crime scene caused him to see not a story, but rather a dead child. This was a teenager, but still, a child.
The body that lay before him was a girl near his daughter’s age. She was someone he had known. She had been an acquaintance to his daughter and the family. She, at one time, had been pretty, petite, and very lively, with large curious eyes, chestnut hair, and a big smile. Now, she lay dead in a section of tall grass.
Her killer had left her hands tied behind her back, allowing her only avenue of escape to be through death’s door. Her face beaten to the point she practically defied recognition. Her hair, once alive and bouncy with as much life as she, now hosted the color of dried blood.
One photo showed Shelia Rayller’s picked, ripped, and torn tan skirt and matching short-sleeved blouse. At a glance, her clothes appeared to have been a new fad, featuring tattered clothing. This could have been assumed except for the blood. The hundreds of picks, small rips, and snags in her garments, possessed bloodstains. The cuts and gashes in her skin appeared to have come from hundreds of small razor blades. Each nick and gash of her skin bled, causing the tan-colored outfit to become a dull brownish-red color.
Her skirt lay high along her thighs with its top portion torn at the waistband. According to the county medical examiner’s report, which Michael later saw, she had been sexually assaulted. The results of this gruesome act of evil had survived in his mind, refusing to be pushed away. Even without the aid of the pictures, he saw again the scene and was equally sickened.
He was not aware of the tears running down his face. The same as they had the morning Shelia was found. His tears were as much for her grandfather as they were for Shelia. Mr. Rayller, having been the one to discover Shelia’s body, was not spared the sight or the impact. The finality of finding his only grandchild murdered, and in such a mutilated state, magnified her destroyed future.
It had taken twenty minutes of pleading with Mr. Rayller before he would release his granddaughter and reposition her the way she was found. It was clear to everyone; Mr. Rayller felt he had lost the last person in the world who was of any value to him.
As Michael reflected on the pain and loss, he did not hear Michelle come into his office. As she did every morning, Michelle brought her father coffee before the morning meeting. She now stood behind him, looking at the pictures. The sight of the pictures gave her tremors spilling a small amount of hot coffee on her fathers’ arm.
Michael watched the droplets run through the hair on his arm, then down in a jagged direction toward his elbow. He didn’t feel the heat from the coffee and cared even less. Captured in the past, it was several seconds before Michael became aware of Michelle’s presence.
Michael didn’t know how long Michelle viewed the photographs from over his shoulder. He did know, he had promised himself, that she would never have to relive that period in her life again, but at this moment, she was seeing it all. Michelle, following her morning routine, happened to be at the right place at the wrong time. Her intense stare at the photos and her trembles were easy to explain. Shelia had been an acquaintance and a classmate to her. The fact that the murderer - the monster - had never been caught, forced Michelle to live with a different reality; she was unable to save Shelia from this heinous crime.
Michael hated the pain Michelle endured daily, and he was well aware pain was not limited to his household alone.






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CHAPTER 2

Near the northwest side of the county, a hot air mass began its collision with a cold front coming from the north. Enough difference existed in temperature to create thunderstorms. The clashing of the two air masses fed the building thunderclouds into dangerous levels. As a result, a tornado was being born. Twelve miles away, thunder was unmistakable.
In a small weed infested vegetable garden, a young boy worked feverishly to finish another of his chores before the rain started. He worked quickly but awkwardly with a weeding hoe. In his haste, barely missing the delicate stems of vegetable plants, his focus drifted between what he was doing and what could happen if he did not complete this chores. When finished, he knew there would be no praise. He knew the words, “Well done,” would never come from his parents. Life had already taught him early to expect only condemnation and ridicule.
He was certain if the gardening was not finished before it rained, his mother would do bad and painful things to him, again. The sting of being called stupid and lazy, regularly drilled its way into his mind. If she felt so inclined, she would grind him into the dirt while telling him how ugly he was. She often screamed at the top of her lungs, “What a mistake it was to have you!” In her desire to inflict severe emotional pain, she would tell him, “I should have killed you before you were born.”
He learned about abortion in school. Now, he believed she would have preferred an abortion rather than having him live. Hearing those words and understanding the meaning was pain as if someone extinguished a lit cigarette directly on his heart. Without exception, every time he heard or thought the words, he felt the pain anew.
His mother’s cruel words were not her only tool for inflicting pain and injury. She often struck him with whatever she had in her hand or could reach. Timmy had felt the sting of a hot fry pan, wire clothes hangers, pieces of wood, and many other objects. Her weapon of choice, however, was a loop of stiff wire wrapped around a wooden handle, shape of a tennis racquet, but larger. It had been made for beating dirt out of floor rugs, in the old days, but now it had a different use.
When he was beaten with it, the bite was painful even through his clothes. He would do anything she wanted to keep her from reaching for “the wire,” as she called it.
His father offered no emotional support or protection. As Timmy’s lot in life would have it, his father often returned home drunk and in a particularly evil mood. He would do all the things his mother did to him; at times, he hurt him even more.
Usually after his father and mother fought regarding his father’s drinking, his father would beat his mother with the wire, or his fist, and then bring the anger to their son. Two years earlier, just such an event had occurred with the beating concluding with a back injury to their child. One blow to the back of the eight-year-old caused him to be unable to sit up for two days. He still felt occasional back pains.
When his parents decided he had been bad, and they wanted to have their idea of fun, Timmy would be thrown into the storm cellar. Once inside, the doors would be locked behind him from the outside. His confinement had no predetermined time limit. It could be for a few hours or for as long as a whole day.
In the cellar, Timmy had no light, seldom food or water. By the age of seven, he had learned to hide meager provisions for his stay in the storm cellar. These few provisions helped stave off the pains of hunger. He was confined to the cellar on a regular basis for minor and major offenses.
The storm cellar was equipped with double doors and possessed handles on both sides. To lock Timmy in, they only needed a piece of wood or something inserted through the outside handles. This place of darkness and isolation then became Timmy’s dungeon of nightmares.
Timmy’s bed and bedroom were usually dirty. His mother often said housework was for the maid. The maid never arrived, and Timmy did not attempt cleaning the room himself. His bed, ignored for weeks at a time, seldom offered the comfort of clean sheets. To Timmy the dirt floor of the storm cellar was only slightly less comfortable than his bedroom inside the house.
In the storm cellar, he had no bed, no blankets, and no pillow, only a dirt floor. When the door closed, the place built for food storage and taking shelter from severe storms became his prison. When used for that purpose, Timmy often cried himself to sleep on the dirt floor.
When he wasn’t crying or sleeping, he watched the shadows created in the darkness. Shadows and sounds combined with the smell of rotting fruits and vegetables shaped the world in Timmy’s dungeon. He knew when he got old enough it would be his job to clear out the rot. Therefore, he suffered quietly and waited.
Just the thought of the storm cellar put fear in his heart and a tremble in his hands. He didn’t notice the grapefruit-sized rock lying in his row behind him. Stepping back quickly, his bare heel struck the rock, tumbling him backward.
As a result, a jarring crash to the ground was not painful and would have been fun if not for the damage caused by his fall. Timmy had fallen on the row of corn he’d just finished weeding. Feeling the roughness of the leaves through his worn shirt, he lay on his back, giving a sideward stare at the cornstalk nearest his head. Beneath him lay three broken stalks.
Getting to his feet, Timmy turned to look down, inspecting the damage. The cornstalks were cleanly broken off at their bases. He knew there was no saving them. Knowing the likelihood broken corn would be noticed, Timmy quickly saw the makings of another beating.
If Mom or Dad see this, I’m going to get killed, he shouted within his mind.
On hands and knees, he gathered the broken stalks in his arms with the intention of throwing them into the nearby woods, but when he stood to his feet, he saw her.
His mother stood statue-still, holding the screen door open with her body, watching him. Having been caught in the middle of the act was bad enough, but his mother had the wire in one hand, bouncing its loop off her other hand. From ten yards away, Timmy clearly saw the look on her face. His young eyes focused on her frown and the up-twist at one corner of her mouth; then she spoke. She did not say words of encouragement; instead, she spat out words he’d heard repeatedly in his young life.
“You stupid, lazy sack of dog crap. Don’t move an inch.”
With that said, she stormed out the doorway, charging across the yard and into the garden.
Grabbing Timmy by his hair, she began striking him on any part of his body the wire could land. Timmy dropped the cornstalks and attempted to avoid the striking wire, but with no success.
He tried not to cry, but the pain was too severe. Then a thought occurred to him: if he cried she would stop the beatings. He soon discovered this was also a bad idea. Her angry strikes to his body continued. Timmy did not understand why his mother enjoyed inflicting pain on him.
He soon realized he was being rough-handled all the way to the storm cellar. With the sight of the cellar doors, he began to cry and beg more vigorously. Hoping against hope he would not be put into the place he feared most. His pleas were ignored.
With one door already open, she shoved him in with a hard strike to his back. He stumbled down the three steps into the darkness. Slamming the door closed, Phyllis smiled an evil smile without remorse or regret. Timmy’s mother slid the wooden lock into place in the outside handles. Pleased with herself and Timmy’s pleas for mercy, she returned to the house. She had made plans to go out for the evening.
In the dark, caged like an animal, he cried, not only from the pain of the wire, but also from wanting to feel the love other kids had. He had no idea what love really felt like; he’d only heard about it. He could not remember experiencing a warm embrace from his mother. Sitting on the dirt floor in the dark, the only light Timmy had came from a crack between the two doors. In the darkness of the storm cellar, his dungeon, Timmy cried.
Locked away like a prisoner in a far away land, he was alone, scared, and hungry. Isolated from the outside world, Timmy made his apology.
“Mom, I didn’t mean to break the corn. Mom, I didn’t mean to break the corn.”
Getting to his feet, he walked the few feet across the dirt floor and stood on the bottom step to the exit. With his head nearly touching the doors, he took his small hands and gripped the two inside handles of the doors. He wanted to push the doors open, but he knew if they opened and his mother was waiting, she would beat him again and throw him back in. With tears running down his dirty face, leaving clean trails, he repeated his apology.
“Mom, I didn’t mean to break the corn. Mom, I didn’t mean to break the corn.” Then finally, he spoke in a whisper. “Mommy, I didn’t mean to break the corn.”
Holding the door handles, looking out through the crack at a sliver of freedom, his apology and weeping went unheard. He wanted to get out of his prison, but he was too afraid to push the door. Fear of another beating stopped him. He was tired, hurting, and felt the welts start to rise on his skin, caused by the wire hoop. The pain of the welts slowly gave way to soreness. Timmy was only ten years old, just a little boy.
Looking through the crack, as he had done many times before, he heard a whispering, raspy voice say his name.
“Timmy.” ...



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