A Halloween party, a fog machine, and the one guest not in costume: inside Chapter Ten of Jetson’s Journey, where manufactured fear meets the real thing.

Meet the litter at the heart of Riverspook—eight young Labradors marked with paint instead of names—and the morning the birds went quiet. Free novella.

A signed hardcover of Jetson’s Journey joins the Heritage Collection at the Williamson County Public Library—kept under lock and key until publication day.

Riverspook opens with a young Labrador coming awake in the pre-dawn dark because something outside is wrong. He can’t see it. There is nothing to see. Writing that page taught me more about sensory craft than anything else I’ve done, mostly by showing me how lazy I’d been about it. Sight is a snapshot. Smell is a timeline. This is the sentence I kept coming back to. You walk into a kitchen and see it as it is right now: dishes in the sink, light on the floor. A dog walks into

The first line of Riverspook is about a smell. Not a sight. That was the decision that made the whole book possible, and I didn’t arrive at it on purpose so much as back into it after everything else failed. What the book actually does One clarification before the craft talk, because the title of this post oversimplifies. Riverspook isn’t narrated only by a dog. Most of it is, in first person, present tense, from inside a black Lab called Red. The rest cuts away to the humans