It Only Gets Darker From Here
There’s something a little dangerous about the halfway point.
It’s where the story stops flirting… and starts meaning it.
And as of this week, Nothing Haunts Like a Heart is officially 50% written.
Halfway into the tension.
Halfway into the unraveling.
Halfway into something that was never supposed to feel this real.
And I won’t lie to you—this book has teeth.
It’s quieter than some of my others. Slower. Hungrier. The kind of story that lingers in the doorway a second too long. The kind that watches you watch it.
Because this one?
This is slow burn in its most delicious form. The kind that coils tight in your chest before it ever sparks.
This is forced proximity that doesn’t just trap two people in the same space—it strips them bare in it.
This is spooky and sexy, where every creak in the floorboards means something… and every glance lasts just a second too long.
It’s about longing.
And ghosts.
And the things we carry that refuse to stay buried.
And if you’ve been waiting for something that feels—something aching and atmospheric and just a little bit wicked—you’re going to want to be here for this one.
A Little Reminder (Because I Love You)
If this book is already whispering your name… You can pre-order Nothing Haunts Like a Heart right here: https://amzn.to/4bqMnDV
And if you’re thinking about it? This is me gently grabbing your hand and saying: Do it before May 10th.
Pre-orders matter more than you think. They help this book find its readers. They help it rise, get seen, get talked about.
And selfishly? They tell me you’re right here with me while I’m writing this—scene by scene, heartbeat by heartbeat.
A Taste of What’s Coming
The ancient, rusty cart reminds me of being in an Albertson’s grocery store in the 90s while I unload my essentials. A flash of nostalgia washes over me, and I brush it away.
I slide the canvas shopping bags down the conveyor belt, and the young man looks at them with confusion written across their pimply brow.
“We, uhm, use paper bags.”
Did I hear this kid right? They still use paper bags? “What’s the upcharge?”
“No upcharge.”
“No upcharge? It’s like, sixty cents a bag where I’m from.”
He tilts his head to the side, considers asking me a question, and then swallows the words, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. I know what he wants to ask, so I answer it anyway.
“Colorado Springs. I’m from Colorado Springs.”
“Cool.”
After ringing me up, the kid pulls out a stack of brown paper sacks from under the counter and flicks one open. I move to load my groceries into the bag, and he stops me with another weird look, as if I’ve got muck on my face.
“I’ll do that, ma’am. It’s part of my job.”
I’m too embarrassed to be enraged at him calling me ‘ma’am.’ I’m not a ma’am. I’m thirty-five, for fuck’s sake. That is not a ma’am age.
“Sorry, I’m new here.”
“I can tell. Moved into the Moore House, right? Middle of the night, called the cops?”
“How do you know that?”
“Small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.” He finishes bagging my load into four neat brown sacks. “Be careful up there. Heard it’s haunted by a crazy ghost. It’s some real Scooby-Doo shit if you ask me.”
Scooby-Doo shit? The second time I’ve heard that this week. Is he related to Grier? “Oh, okay. I’ll take that under consideration.” I pay for my groceries and roll the squealing cart into the parking lot. My Tahoe sits parked under one of the tall lampposts, and as I unlock it, I quickly check to see that no one is in the back seat.
When I lived in Colorado Springs, checking the backseat was second nature before getting in the truck. Old habits die hard, even in a small town, but you can never be too careful. The last thing I want is to go missing and have my house renamed after me. They could call it the ‘Curry Casa.’
The short drive back to my house through town is uneventful, and as I pass the rows and rows of aging homes with their porch lights on, a wild thought passes through my brain.
Try as I might, I can’t get the look on Mack’s face out of my mind, or the flash of hunger in his eyes. What was he thinking? Was he sizing me up, or undressing me with his eyes? I don’t need a man to desire me to know my worth, but it’s nice to still be looked at as a lady and not just the ‘rich weirdo’ who moved to town.
I didn’t come to Hooverville to look for a relationship; I came to escape the ghosts of my past. Just my luck, I bought a haunted house. No matter how intriguing they may be, I have to stay firm in my resolve. No dating, no hookups; I have to focus on my career, my house, and the mystery of the Moore House.
Parking in the driveway, I unload my groceries and carry them up the wooden stairs. They fall onto the landing with a solid ‘thunk!’ as I dig out my keys. I nudge open the door with my foot, and the faint sound of a piano floats down the staircase. The fight-or-flight insticts kicks in as the haunting melody drifts toward me, reverberating through my skull like an out-of-tune music box. A tremor runs through me, and from nowhere, an icy blast of air hits the foyer.
My heart beats out of my chest, pounding through the thin fabric of my shirt. A wisp of my breath hangs in front of my face as the blast cuts through me like a hot knife, cauterizing everything in its wake. I may never be fully warm again after this.
The wind pushes the door shut with a deafening slam. As soon as the door clicks in the latch, the melody stops. The echo fades, and the smell of lemon cleaner clings to the air.
I do not run screaming from the Moore House. I hold my ground and plant my feet firmly on the woolen floor runner. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I speak my piece.
“This is my home now, and I’m too broke to leave. You’re not going to Beetlejuice me out of here. You can either get with the program or cross over into the light. It’s your choice, Constance. Are we going to co-exist in peace, or not?”
Another melody wafts down the stairs, the notes reverberating through the walls. As quickly as it starts, it ends. Swallowing the lump in my throat and willing my heart to slow down, I grab my groceries and carry them into the kitchen.
“I’ll take that as ‘yes.’ “
I don’t make it halfway into the room before I see them. Floury white footprints track across the floor, stopping in front of the back wall. I drop the groceries on the floor and follow the prints leading to the door. Balling up my fists, I bang on the wall, listening for hollow spaces. A heavy thud echoes through the wall, and I feel around the edges for a trick switch or secret button.
My fingers connect with something solid, and I push. A lock pops, the wall creaks, the panel slides, and a room appears behind it. Swallowing my fears, I push the door open wider and peer inside.
The smell of rust and decay fills my nose as I step into the hidden room. Dust particles dance through the air as the kitchen light hits them, and something large illuminates as a beam of light splits through the shadows. I turn on the flashlight on my phone, step inside, shine the beam around the room, and then I see it.
My heart stops, the blood in my body turns icy, and my ears ring like the sound of a finger being drawn over the rim of a wet wine glass. It grows to a crescendo, like the wailing of a police siren, and then the world goes deathly silent.
In the dusty, secret room, a rolled-up rug leans against the back wall. Stepping closer, the picture becomes clear; it’s not simply a poorly-stored rug. It’s a bloody, moth-eaten rug with dusty red heels sticking out of the bottom. Oh, my God. Are those—
Something in my gut tells me to move, to get the hell out of the alcove. Staggering backward out of the room, I trip over my feet in a hurry to escape the terrifying thoughts running through my head.
Landing flat on my ass and cursing furiously, my phone slides across the floor, skidding to a stop out of reach. A soft, feminine voice speaks from inside the room, scolding me like a mother.
“It’s not ladylike to swear.”
“Oh, fuck this.”
Scrambling to reach my phone, I crawl across the tiles, slipping and sliding through the spilled flour. I fall forward, forehead slamming into the floor. The last thing I remember before the world goes dark is dialing 911. My brain paralyzes itself with fear, and the ringing in my skull intensifies, pitching higher by the second. I stare into the dark room, and then the room falls into nothingness.
There is nothing in the darkness except a pair of red heels. Red heels with dried blood on the round toes. They tip-tap across the hardwood toward me, heels clacking rhythmically. They stop a few inches from my head, and then turn, walking back the way they came. The heels disappear at the fringe of my consciousness, and all fades to black once more.
The next thing I hear is Mack calling me back from the inky darkness and into the blazing yellow light. His voice is a beacon in the fog, pulling me back into the land of the living. I feel him kneeling over me, one large palm cradling my head. I open my eyes and blink, and he comes into focus, a soft glowing halo around his head like an aura.
“Mack, I found— “
“Don’t talk. The paramedics are on their way. They need to evaluate you for head trauma.” His eyes scan my face, looking me over for bruises, and the tension in his jaw releases. Relieved when he sees what he wants to see, his other hand finds mine and squeezes my fingers. “Don’t be scared. They’ll be here soon.
I nod and groan his name as my head aches with the movement. “I’m not scared, I think I—”
“No, no. Just focus on me. Don’t move. Just look at my face and stay still.”
I shake my head, and my brain bounces around my skull, bumping into each cranial bone and screaming for me to stop moving.
“I think I found Constance.”
We’re halfway there.
And I promise you… the second half?
It doesn’t pull its punches.
— Olive
