October 31, 2020

#Halloween in #Miniature: Happy Halloween! Trick or Treat!

 (Candy, Megan Conlon, see interview, Halloween In Miniature, 2010 - https://candidcanine.blogspot.com/2010/10/halloween-in-miniature-2010-day-8.html

👀 Start at Day 1: https://candidcanine.blogspot.com/2020/09/halloween-in-miniature-2020-start-party.html

Today I bring you the perfect Trick or Treat story...heh-heh....


By A.L. Kaplan

Chocolate, gooey caramel. My mouth almost waters. If only I could still taste that luscious candy, but the reanimated can’t do that. It wouldn’t be bad if I got out more. I mean, Grandma is great and all. She brought me back to half-life after I was killed. It’s just not the same without other kids to play with. Halloween is the only day I can go outside without freaking the living. Believe me, you don’t want the pitchfork and torch brigade chasing you.

“Trick or Treat.” I hold out my sack with the other children.

(Dish and spoon, Julie Campbell Doll Artist)

A lady hands me a handful of candy. “Great Costume.” 

I thank her and hurry toward the next house. Two little girls sob at the curb. Halloween should be fun, not sad.

(Ghost girls,  Julie Campbell Doll Artist)  

“Are you ok?”

(Bunny pattern, larger size, The Wishing Shed, Etsy. Cute!)

The bunny points a gloved paw at three disappearing teens. Her ears bounce with each sniffle. “They…took… our…candy.”

I hate bullies. “Here, take mine.”

Big, round, adoring eyes look up at me. Being undead has its perks. I track the thieves faster than a bloodhound.

“That candy isn’t yours.”

(Candy bars, Patricia Paul on Etsy)

        They laugh and tower around me. “Get lost or get pounded, squirt.”

“Squirt, is it.”

I take a deep breath and squirt them with inky old blood.

      A moment of stunned silence, then they clench their fists. I point down. They stare as skeletal hands reach up and pull them into the ground. Half-buried, they shriek and struggle.

“Don’t steal, especially from little kids on Halloween. I’ll be watching.” ##

** For fun, here's a link to some great dollhouse candy printies. 


A.L. Kaplan is the author of Star Touched and Wolf Dawn, Gifted with the ability to wolf-talk, Kara has lived with the wolves since she lost her memories eight years ago. Now at sixteen, snippets of her past send her searching for answers. But the warm welcome she receives in the human village hides more danger than life with the pack.
      In Star Touched, Eighteen-year-old Tatiana is running from her past and her star-touched powers. Her power to heal may be overshadowed by more destructive abilities. Fleeing the persecution of those like her, Tatiana seeks refuge in a small town she once visited. But this civil haven, in a world where society has broken down, is beginning to crumble. Will Tatiana flee or stay and fight for the new life she has built? Only by harnessing the very forces that haunt her can Tatiana save her friends and herself.##
Thanks for stopping by for another year of HALLOWEEN IN MINIATURE! 
I hope you enjoyed your visit as much as I enjoyed planning it. You can check out last yer and previous years on the tab on top of this blog.
* Be sure to visit my website for the latest news on my new book, In Miniature Style - Halloween! (If it isn't done, It's in the production phase, so stay tuned!)

A big THANK YOU to all the artists and authors who kindly lent their talents to this year's event! Please visit their sites and check out more of their work.
 (Be sure to come back for a few late posts on what I've been working on! Halloween never ends, you know. haa!)
The Artists & Authors:

🎃 Julie Campbell hand-sculpts an incredible array of dolls. Check out her Halloween dolls preview on Etsy.
  If you didn't know, she also made the figures featured in the movie based on the book, The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton. (See more about the film. Read more about the film's dollhouse and Campbell's dolls here.)

😈 Debra Hinton makes some ghoulish minis at Darkside Morbid Miniatures. Warning: not for the fainthearted.  Also be sure to check out her amazingly detailed 28-room Victorian-era Kangley Hill Asylum.

💀 Other miniature creations by Meredith Paige and Angela Potts from the Haunted Orchid Dollhouse Club on FB.

👄 Patricia Paul makes the most fun and spooky Halloween and Haunted miniatures. (PS - sign up for her newsletter for a free printie book cover set!)

 😸 Carola Dunn is a multi-published British author of  the Daisy Dalrymple classic mystery series, the Cornish mysteries and over 30 regencies. See her author book page here.

👹 Leta Hawk loves writing about fantasy, ghosts and other spooky things. She is the author of the Kyrie Carter Supernatural Sleuth series.

 👺A.L. Kaplan is the author of Star Touched and Wolf Dawn, plus some great (and spooky!) short fiction.  See her author page here.

👀 Be sure to check my website and this blog for more news on my upcoming In Miniature Style: Halloween book and ebook by C.A. Verstraete! 

** See you next year!! **


October 30, 2020

#Halloween in #Miniature 2020-4: A Halloween Story part 2, Carola Dunn

 Welcome to Halloween in Miniature 2020!  Day 4

👻 Go to intro & contest! on Day 1 - https://candidcanine.blogspot.com/2020/09/halloween-in-miniature-2020-start-party.html

Read Part 1 of this story on Day 3 - https://candidcanine.blogspot.com/2020/10/halloween-in-miniature-2020-3-halloween.html


💀 Continued -  Part 2 of Superstition! by Carola Dunn

    With some argument Peter persuaded his friend that his plan was a harmless lark, and gave him the blunt to buy a few old sheets from Mrs. Gregg, the landlord's accommodating young wife.  While Freddy went to round up his accomplices, Peter stood for a minute watching the dancers.

    Amelia was light on her feet as a week-old lamb.  Her ringlets bobbed merrily as she smiled at her partner and turned on his arm.  She loved to dance.  If only she didn't change her mind about going with him!

    Then she grimaced, and he guessed the curate really had trod on her toes, bless him.  Peter went to harness his gig.

    The cold outside made his head swim.  "No more punch," he muttered to himself, blinking.  What the devil did Gregg put in the stuff?

    After a moment, his head stopped going round and he made his way out into the stable yard.  It was a clear, crisp night, the moon just past full.  The yard and the street beyond were crammed with the motley collection of vehicles that had brought the local gentry and the wealthier farmers to town for the Halloween assembly.  Fortunately Peter had arrived a little late, so his gig was easily accessible.

(Photo: pixabay.com)

    His trusty roan, Snap, snorted his objection to being extracted from the friendly warmth of the stable.  He stood patiently between the shafts, his breath steaming in the frosty air.

(House, Angela Potts)

    Peter fastened the last buckle and went back into the inn's entrance hall.  In a dark nook by the staircase, Amelia was lurking, enveloped in her scarlet woollen cloak and hood.  As she hurried towards him, he noted with approval that she had changed from dancing slippers into half-boots.

    "Quick, before someone sees me."  She took his arm and hurried him back through the door into the yard.  "I told Mama I was going to sit with Mr. Gregg's mother for half an hour."

    "How noble!"

    "I did go and see old Mrs. Gregg for a few minutes earlier, so it is only a little bit of a fib.  Hello, Snap."  She stroked the horse's nose.  "You must take us quickly there and back or I shall be well and truly in the briars."

(Creepy clock, luvcats9, Ebay)

    Snap whickered and turned his head to watch them climb into the gig.  At Peter's signal, he set of trotting through the little town and started up the hill toward Salisbury Plain as the church clock chimed the third quarter.  The road was in excellent repair after a period of dry weather, so they made good time. The hour had not yet sounded when they reached the road's closest approach to Stonehenge.

    For the last few hundred feet, the light open carriage jolted across sheep-cropped turf.  By moonlight the great stone arches loomed supernaturally immense, their black shadows stretching across the plain.  Handing Amelia down from the gig, Peter shivered--up here in the open a biting breeze cut through his top coat.

(Photo: pixabay.com)

    Amelia shivered too.  He put his arm about her shoulders and together they picked their way through the four rings of stones to stop close to the altar stone.

    "Do you want to sit down?" he asked in a hushed voice.

    "On the sacrificial stone?  Heavens, no!  I hope it is nearly midnight, for I am half frozen."  She turned to put her arms around his waist and hid her face in his shoulder.

    He hugged her, suspecting that, though cold and scared, she was actually quite enjoying herself.

    From the distant town, the first stroke of midnight wafted to his ears.  He glanced hopefully around the massive circle. Freddy had not had much time to gather their friends and bring them up here, but if they came too long after the clock stopped striking the impact of their arrival would be spoiled.  Besides, an inflammation of the lungs would be a sorry end to this adventure.

(Dancers, pixabay.com)

    Ah, there they were.  White-robed figures drifted through the arches and he heard a low, solemn chanting.  How had they managed such a realistic show in so short a time?  Four, then half a dozen, a score--who the devil had Freddy brought with him?  Peter didn't want a bunch of strangers catching him here with Amelia in his arms.

    More and more of the mysterious figures filed into the inmost ring, treading a stately measure.  One carried a leafless branch on which grew a bush of mistletoe, its berries lucent as pearls in the moonlight.  In the hands of another gleamed a sickle, and a third bore a blazing torch, its fiery light glinting on the wide gold collars and headdresses worn by the three high priests. The rhythmic chant grew louder, faster, almost drowning the screams.

    Screams!  Peter saw that the torchbearer, at the altar stone, was setting light to a huge wicker basket, shaped like a man. And inside the basket were men, living men, and wailing women and children, bound with ropes of straw.

(Fire, Pixabay.com)

    A pale fire sprang up.  The sacrificial victims writhed in agony, their tortured shrieks piercing the night.  The smell of burning flesh reached Peter's nostrils.

    Appalled, he tried to rush to the rescue.  His legs refused to move; his feet were frozen to the ground.  He tried to shout a protest.  No sound emerged from his throat.  He realized that he was not breathing.  His heart, which should be pounding in terror and fury, was standing still.     He could not even clasp Amelia closer to him to keep the dreadful sounds from her ears.

    The three high priests watched their victims last struggles with grave detachment.  Around them the dancers had halted, facing inward.  Peter saw avid faces and averted faces, the gloaters and the sickened, and some who looked upon the ghastly death of their fellow-beings with a lack of interest almost more horrifying than the greedy relish of others.

    The wicker form began to crumble as the flames leaped higher.

The screams diminished to moans, and ceased.

    Amelia giggled.

    Peter shuddered and breathed again, gulping the icy air.

    Amelia raised her face to him and said with a teasing smile, "The last stroke of midnight.  Do you realize that I am shockingly compromised being out here alone with you?  I shall have to marry you after all."  She sighed.

    Bewildered, Peter gazed around.  The druids were fading, becoming indistinct.  Through their dim images skipped his friends, wrapped in sheets, howling in gleeful amusement.  There were Freddy and his brother Ned, and over there young Bob, and Chris, the last more balloonlike than ever in his fluttering white drapery.  And coming through the arches, Tommy's lanky shape, last as usual.  He'd recognize them anywhere, even with sheets over their heads.

(Dog, Patricia Paul I know, it's not a spaniel... but... )

    Ned's spaniel barked and frisked about their legs as they capered round and round the altar stone, whooping or cackling as the fancy took them.  Chris tripped over a trailing end of his costume, and Bob's eye-holes went awry, leaving him blundering blindly.  Amelia clung to Peter's arm and laughed.

    "Did you not..." he began uncertainly, but Freddy pranced up to them and bowed.

    The others followed suit.  Amelia clapped her hands as they all disrobed.  "That was a splendid show, gentlemen," she congratulated them.

    "It was famous sport; glad you enjoyed it, Miss Blake." Grinning, Freddy smoothed his ruffled hair and cast a sidelong glance at Peter.  "Well, we'd best be on our way."

    Peter put out a hand to stop him.  "I don't suppose you happened to see anyone else dressed up as ghosts?"

    "Lord, no.  No one around here but you would think of such a lark.  Come on, fellows.  I just hope the breeze hasn't carried off my best hat."

    "I daresay one of the horses has eaten it by now," Bob suggested.

    With a screech worthy of the most unhappy ghost, Freddy loped off through the arches and the others went after him.

    Arm in arm, Peter and Amelia followed.  By the time they emerged from the stone rings, all the young men were mounted—and hatted.  Their mounts, it seemed, had graciously refrained from eating Freddy's best beaver.  The riders waved and cantered off across the grassy plain.

(Happy couple and dog, Patricia Paul)

    Snap came trotting up to Peter, the gig bouncing behind him, and nuzzled at his pocket for the lump of sugar he always carried.  Peter fed it to him, then handed Amelia into the gig. Jumping up beside her, he still felt slightly dazed, unsure of what was real and what was not.

    "Did you not see or hear any genuine ghosts?" he asked, doing his best to keep his voice unconcerned, as he took up the reins and whip and gave Snap the office to start.

    "Of course not.  I am not quite the ninny you think me, and I expected something of the sort when you proposed coming up here. They did it very well, but no one could possibly mistake your friends for genuine ghosts.  I hope they did not steal the sheets off somebody's washing line."

    "I gave Freddy the money to buy them from young Mrs. Gregg," he said absently.  Thank heaven she had not been aware of the Druids.  He would never have forgiven himself for subjecting his beloved to those gruesome sights and sounds.  Taking a deep breath, he resolved to try to forget them.

    While he was hesitating over how to phrase his next question, a cold little hand, in a thin silk glove meant for dancing, slipped into his.  He dropped the whip--he never used it on Snap anyway.

    "Peter," Amelia confided, "I don't really mind being compromised and having to marry you."

    "You don't?"

    "No.  You see, I have loved you ever since you stopped pulling my pigtails."

    "You have?  Oh, my darling Melly."  The reins joined the whip on the gig's floor.  He gathered her in his arms, and kissed her thoroughly.

    Snap trotted on.  When Peter emerged from the blissful embrace and picked up the reins again, the patient beast merely gave an indulgent snort.

    "So you see," said Amelia, "the Gypsy woman was quite right about everything, and it was nowhere near as straightforward as you thought."

(Gypsy, Julie Campbell Doll Artist)

    "What do you mean?"

    "The stone ring--that was not a betrothal ring, but Stonehenge.  And the white robes were Freddy and the others in their sheets, though I would not precisely describe their antics as a ceremony."

    Glacial fingers tiptoed down Peter's spine.  He had watched a ceremony.  "And the ancient place," he said quickly in a lamentably hollow tone, "was Stonehenge again, of course, not the church."

    "Yes," she agreed, "and my heart's desire is you."

    Naturally he had to kiss her again, and the warmth of her soft lips thawed his icy dread.  "Let us get married soon," he begged.

    "If you wish, but I do hope, Peter, that you will stop laughing at me for being superstitious."

    "Believe me, Amelia," he promised with utterly convincing fervour, "never again shall a single skeptical word cross my lips!"


 👹 Carola Dunn is the author of some 60 books including the 23 book, 1920s-era Daisy Dalrymple mystery series, the four-book Cornish mysteries and a collection of Regency novels, plus novellas.. See her website for more on her writing. 

The Corpse at the Crystal Palace, A Daisy Dalrymple Mystery (Book 23)
 - April, 1928: 
Discovering that her children's nanny, Nanny Gilpin, has never seen the Crystal Palace, Daisy Dalrymple Fletcher decides to make a day of it—bringing her cousins, her 3-year-old twins, her step-daughter Belinda, the nurserymaid, and Nanny Gilpin. The ordinary outing goes wrong when Mrs. Gilpin goes off to the ladies’ room and fails to return. When Daisy goes to look for her, she doesn't find her nanny but instead the body of another woman dressed in a nanny's uniform.


👀 Next: Day 5 - Happy Halloween! 


October 29, 2020

#Halloween in #Miniature 2020-3: A Halloween Party Story by Carola Dunn

 Welcome to Halloween in Miniature 2020! Day 3

👀 Go Back (and see contest!) on Day 1 -



See Day 2's story - https://candidcanine.blogspot.com/2020/09/halloween-in-miniature-2020-2-cemetery.html

Today's Story:

Dare to have your fortune told? Or do you believe in 


by Carola Dunn


   (Skeleton, Patricia Paul)

 "Come and dance, Melly!"  Peter seized Amelia's soft little hand and tugged her towards the far end of the room, where the fiddler was tuning up.

    "Later."  The white ruffles on her pale pink muslin gown swayed about her ankles as she resisted.  "It is nearly my turn to have my fortune told."

    "I'm dashed if I know what you see in such nonsense," he snorted.

    She tossed her head, her dark, glossy ringlets bouncing.  "I would not miss it for the world.  This year Mr. Gregg has hired a genuine Gypsy woman who can really see the future."

(Gypsy, (Julie Campbell Doll Artist)

    "Pure superstition." Laughing, he gestured at the admirable decorations Mr. Gregg, landlord of the George, had hung about the walls of the assembly room.  "I suppose you believe in witches, too, riding on broomsticks in their pointy hats.  And as tonight is All Hallows' Eve, no doubt the ghosts will all waft from their graves at midnight and dance around your revered papa's churchyard.  What an adorable ninny you are, Amelia."

    "And you are odious!"  Rosy lips pouted, delectably kissable --but the long room was full of family, friends and neighbours.

"If you truly loved me," she complained, "you would not always be laughing at me."

    "But I do love you, Mel."  Distractedly running his fingers through his fair hair, Peter wreaked havoc on the Brutus he had laboured over for quite half an hour.  "I have loved you since you were in leading strings and I wish you will make up your mind to marry me."

    "You cannot want a ninny for a wife."  She turned away towards the fortune-teller's gaudy tent, pitched in the corner. A blonde young lady in blue dimity was just coming out.  "Jenny! What did the Gypsy say?"

    Peter's youngest sister gave a theatrical shudder.  "It was perfectly horrid, Melly," she declared, her blue eyes bright with relish.  "But I cannot tell you what she said or it will not come true."

    "Horrid?" Amelia faltered.

    "Come on."  Peter seized the excuse to put his arm around her slender waist.  "I shall go in with you.  I wager you have forgot silver to cross her palm, anyway."

    "No, I have not.  I brought a shilling."

    "I daresay sixpence would be enough, but perhaps you will get a better fortune for a shilling," he teased.  

    The garish outer covering of the tent was composed of alternate red and yellow panels, embroidered in green with cabalistic signs.  The contrast with the interior was startling.

Inside, black hangings of a sheenless material absorbed the light of the single candle, flickering in a sconce behind and above the fortune-teller's head.  The Gypsy woman, her face in darkness, sat at a small, round table draped with black.  Before her, a crystal ball seemed to shimmer with an inner light.

    Peter had to admit--strictly to himself--that the effect was decidedly eerie.

    The still figure spoke in a low voice.  "Squire's son and vicar's daughter, come."  She beckoned.

    Amelia pressed close against Peter's side.  It was a delightful sensation, but he gave her a gentle squeeze and pushed her forward.  "Go on.  I shall be right here."

(Fortune, anyone? C. Verstraete)

    She sat down on the spindly chair facing the Gypsy and he stood behind her, resting his hands on its back.  "How did you know who we are?" she asked, awed.

    "Is that the question you wish to ask of the Powers?"

    Detecting a hint of amused irony, Peter felt more comfortable.  After all, Sir William Lovatt's heir and the Reverend Blake's daughter were well known in Amesbury.  No occult Powers were needed to discover their identities.

    "No, I just want to know the future," Amelia assured her. "My future."  She proffered her shilling.

    The Gypsy pocketed the silver coin and nodded, her dark eyes reflecting a fugitive gleam.  "Hold my hands and gaze into the crystal ball.  Concentrate on what you want to know."

    Amelia cast a nervous glance up at Peter.  He squeezed her shoulder encouragingly, sensing the fragile bones beneath the satin-smooth skin revealed by her modest decolletage.  Gingerly she clasped the Gypsy's hands.

    Muffled by the tent's draperies, the music and laughter and talk in the assembly room outside seemed far off.  Peter heard the ticking of his watch.  Amelia's pulse beat rapidly against his fingertips.  He could not tear his gaze from the glowing crystal.

    The Gypsy's voice startled him.  "I see a ring... stones...white robes and a ceremony.  In an ancient place, you will find your heart's desire.  Wait."  She paused for a long, tense moment.  "No, now a mist is rising, hiding the scene.  That is all."

(Gypsy, (Julie Campbell Doll Artist)

    "I did not see anything," said Amelia doubtfully.

    The response was harsh.  "It is not given to the uninitiated to read the future!"

    Amelia jump to her feet, then bobbed a curtsy and said with dignity, "Thank you, ma'am."  Peter was proud of her as she took his arm and walked straight-backed from the tent.

    Outside, a plump farm girl was waiting with her swain, giggling.  "What's it like, Miss Blake?" she asked.  "Did the crone tell you who you're going to wed?"  She flirted her eyelashes at Peter and he winked at her.

    "It was spine-chilling," he said in a sepulchral voice.

    "It was strange," said Amelia slowly.  "You had best take Ernie in with you."  As the couple entered the tent, she turned to Peter.  "I do not understand what the Gypsy meant."

    He grinned.  "The usual garbled nonsense, but easy enough to decipher.  A betrothal ring, obviously, and a wedding ceremony with you wearing a white wedding dress."

    "And the ancient place?"

    "The church."

(Old cemetery, Angela Potts)

    "It is old," she admitted, disappointed and dissatisfied. "Papa says parts of it are Norman.  That was an excessively dull fortune.  I wanted something exciting."

    "Isn't marrying me exciting enough for you?"

    "She did not say it was you I shall marry," Amelia pointed out with a saucy look, recovering her spirits.

    "She would never commit herself to anything so specific.  As it is, you are bound to be betrothed and married some day so she could hardly go wrong."

    "Well, I believe what she said, and I am not so sure it was as simple as you say."

    "Nothing will convince you it's all superstition?"  Several glasses of Mr. Gregg's notorious punch put the next words into Peter's mouth.  "I'll tell you what, I shall prove to you that ghosts don't exist."

    "How?" she challenged him.

    "We shall go up to Stonehenge at midnight.  The Druids used to build huge fires at Halloween to drive off the evil spirits they believed were let loose at midnight by the god of the dead. Can you imagine any place or any time when ghosts are more likely to appear?"


    "Then if we are there and nothing materializes, you will have to believe that there is no such thing as a ghost."

    Her head cocked, she gave him a speculative look from beneath long lashes.  "Perhaps," she conceded.

    "You are not afraid?"

    "Papa says if ghosts exist they are immaterial beings who cannot harm the living."

    "Good enough.  You go and bob for apples while I make arrangements."

    "Bob for apples!  Not I.  My ringlets would dangle in the water."

    "That would be too dreadful for words.  Did you sleep in curl papers all night?"

    "No gentleman would ask such a question of a lady!  I shall go and dance with one of my other beaux."

    Peter watched her cross the room, slight and graceful in her high-waisted gown with its straight skirt and puff sleeves. Before she was half way to her mother's side, she was surrounded by friends, both male and female.  A moment later her father's curate led her onto the dance floor, where a country dance was about to start up.

(Ghost girl, Julie Campbell Doll Artist)

    How could she bring herself to stand up with such a wretched, stoop-shouldered fellow?  He would probably step on her toes—he was no better at dancing than he was at riding, and he couldn't drive a pair to save his life.  A whey-faced, mealy-mouthed flat, he didn't even know the difference between wheat and barley, and a boar in rut would send him scampering for...

    "Yellow with jealousy, Peter?"

    "Freddy, you are just the man I need."

    "No, no, old chap, can't challenge a man of God to a duel. Simply isn't done."

    "Not as my second, gudgeon.  Listen."  He drew his friend, nattily clad in primrose pantaloons and a wine-red coat, into a quiet corner.  "I'm taking Amelia up to Stonehenge at midnight to see the Druids."


    "Haven't you read old Colt Hoare's stuff?  You know, Sir Richard, my father's friend over at Stourhead who's forever writing books about Wiltshire antiquities.  He proves pretty conclusively that Stonehenge was the chief Druid temple, and never mind those Banbury stories about the Romans or the Danes building the place."

    "Yes, but whoever built it, you are two thousand years too late to see them cavorting there," Freddy protested.

    "Not them, their ghosts.  It's the perfect place for ghosts. Remember when we read Caesar at school..."

    "Devil take it, you've never told Melly about the human sacrifices!"

    "Of course not--and she is Miss Blake to you."

    "You're not betrothed yet."

    "Not yet," said Peter smugly, "but believe me, we soon shall be after we have been seen alone together at Stonehenge in the middle of the night.  Now listen, will you?  Here is what I want you to do." 

(* See tomorrow's post/Day 4 for part 2 of Superstition!) -https://candidcanine.blogspot.com/2020/09/halloween-in-miniature-2020-4-halloween.html


👹 Carola Dunn is the author of some 60 books including the 23 book, 1920s-era Daisy Dalrymple mystery series, the four-book Cornish mysteries and a collection of Regency novels, plus novellas.. See her website for more on her writing. Her latest books include: 

 Buried in the Country: A Cornish Mystery (Book 4)  Eleanor Trewynn has retired to the relative quiet of a small town in Cornwall. But her quiet life is short-lived when, due to her experience, the Commonwealth Relations Office seeks her assistance in a secret conference taking place in a small hotel outside the historical village of Tintagel. With a raging storm having trapped everyone in the hotel, the stage is set for murder, and it’s up to Eleanor and her niece, Detective Sargent Megan Pencarrow to uncover the truth before more lives are lost.


👽 Julie Campbell makes incredible miniature dolls. See her Facebook photos and website.

💀 Dressed skeleton, Patricia PaulPatricia Paul Studio (FYI: Sign up for her newsletter and get a free set of mini book cover printies!)

👻 Christine Verstraete is an author and miniaturist. See Day 1 for contest and hint on my latest In Miniature Style - Halloween booklet and ebook!

👺 Debra Hinton loves the macabre side of miniatures. See more of her work at her FB page, Darkside Morbid Miniatures. Warning: not for the fainthearted. Also check out Kangley Hill Asylum.

💀 Other miniature creations by Meredith Paige and Angela Potts from the Haunted Orchid Dollhouse Club on FB.

👽 Animations: fg-a.comOther photos: Pixabay.com

👾 Continue the story on Day 4 -