The Death of All Things Beschreibung bei Amazon Apparently unwilling to disclose her age, and therefore her birthdate, it is difficult to say exactly how old Kat Richardson is; but this cannot be an important factor in her eyes, which must be the motivation for doing so. Regardless of this, Richardson went on from being born at some point, to attending California State University in her home state, obtaining a degree in magazine journalism. Her most long running commitment before writing was acting; a hobby she enjoyed from a young age, spending 13 years as a renaissance faire actor. Coming out of these varied jobs, and having tried her hand at other types of fiction, Richardson gained attention as the author of the 9 book series Greywalker, spanning from , which like other young adult literature, contains elements of fantasy fused into a recognisable reality. Her current residence is near the city of Seattle in an old boat, which allegedly is haunted by the ghosts of ferrets.

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Special thanks to: Richard Kaufman of the Genii Forums for help with table-tapping techniques; Detective Nathan Janes for information about SPD criminal and homicide investigations I fudged a bit here and there to make things more dramatic ; and to the friends who let me borrow their names for characters in this book Ken George, Ana Choi, Rey and Karen Solis —any resemblance to their real selves or lives is strictly imaginary.

Vague shapes and eddies moved through the gleaming mist trailing subtle colors while the bright gold of the houses protective spell coiled around the structure like a friendly vine. Though Mara Danziger was safely in the normal world while I was in the Grey, I was able to see the sleeping child in her lap as a white shape, and my friend had been shrouded in a blur of blue light and gold sparks.

I was even able to hear her, though the sound had a slight underwater quality to it. Are you still seeing things the same way? I can slide down below the fog if I want to and look at the power lines—" "Can you, indeed?

Mara was quiet a moment. What do they mean? Ben was the theoretician and scholar. Mara, being a witch, was a bit more practical. Mara continued. Feeling better about it? Sometimes it still gets the better of me and I fall in, but mostly I have control of it more than it has of me.

That was not news to me, even then. There are people like Mara—witches and so on—who can touch the Grey in some way and draw power or information from it, but as far as I know, only ghosts and monsters truly live there. I, however, seem to be half in and half out all the time. Apparently I got this way when I died for a couple of minutes. So far, no one had been able to explain why me and not everyone else medical technology pulls back from clinical death, but I seemed to be the only Greywalker around the Pacific Northwest.

As a private investigator, I usually carried a pretty dull caseload, but once the ghosts and vampires found me, things got weird fast. Within a few minutes of my arrival, even that bit of hope was totally dashed.

Not in the film noir, bang-bang sense but in the creepy, woo-woo sense. He was thin and intense with a hectoring, arrogant manner, a sharp voice, and the cultivated piercing gaze of a silent film villain. He was also a liar—at least by omission. I held up a finger to stem the battering wash of his words. You put together a group of people who made up a ghost and haunted themselves?

There is no ghost. The parapsychologists would call it a group thought-form—" "I thought you were a parapsychologist. I study the minds of people, not spooks. The point of this project is observing how rational individuals become irrational in groups and how that is reinforced by the group itself.

In re-creating the Philip experiments, I gave them an acceptable focus for their irrationality. Psychokinetic phenomena and all. Did they? Regardless of anything else questionable about the Philip experiments, they did, undeniably, manifest minor instances of psychokinesis—PK. Once my group had that information, they became open to the idea that it could be done. Then I supported their belief in the phenomena so they produced PK effects on their own. Just people. But suddenly the phenomena are off the scale.

I think one of the participants is faking additional phenomena. I want you to find out who is doing this and stop them, help me get them out of the group before they ruin the experiment. He wanted to see how far his group would go, but when they went farther than he expected, he assumed he was being scammed.

I tilted a glance at Tuckman through the Grey and watched green tendrils dart out from around him like tiny snakes striking at flies. I stood up and slung my bag over my shoulder. But if what you really want is a patsy to go through the motions and take the blame for something, you need to look elsewhere. The easiest way to do that is to create apparent PK phenomena yourself—or have a confederate do it for you.

He gave me the villain eyes again. I rolled mine in response. Tuckman leapt up. Tuckman pulled his hand back to his side with a sharp inhalation. Please sit down and we can discuss it further. It was bowl-shaped and upholstered in repulsive green vinyl. I threw my bag into it and pulled out my notebook, again. Still on my feet, I turned back to Tuckman as he returned to his desk chair.

I comforted myself with the petty pleasure that at five foot ten I towered over him. I summarized his recent recitations and asked for a list of project participants. For a moment, I thought Tuckman would object, but he swallowed it. He had to. OK, so call me prejudiced, but I did wonder what he was really getting. Disruption of the setting may cause the legitimate phenomena to fail.

Everything is monitored. Everything is documented. Now, you said that your group did produce some actual PK activity on their own, yes? They do produce some verifiable and reproducible table raps, movements, light flickers—that sort of thing.

Can you take me to see your experiment space now? I have a lecture to give in fifteen minutes. He held the large, brassy keys out to me.

John Hall. The room numbers are stamped on the keys. Sign in and out with the front desk and leave the keys with the proctor when you leave. It took quite a while to find a name for which there was little or no information on the Internet. The personality had to be consistently their own creation. He waved me out and locked up his office before handing the pages and disc to the department secretary.

Blaine and put the originals in my box, Denise. As soon as Tuckman turned away from her, she puckered her face into a disgusted expression. You can call me this evening if you have questions," Tuckman said, giving a little nod before he left me alone with the secretary and her sour silence. Once Denise had finished making copies for me, I headed for St.

Pacific Northwest University was founded by fire-breathing Calvinists in I guess they figured that the visitation of more literal hellfire in , when the downtown core of the city burned to the ground, proved that Seattle needed some salvation through education—since neither temperance nor politics seemed to have had much effect in that direction. A lot of people mistake the small campus of PNU for a private high school. Its apparent size is deceptive; quite a few of the large houses nearby are actually school property, in use as dorms, labs, and offices.

I strode west through the quad, raising flurries of new-fallen leaves before me and a scurry of phantoms in the edges of my vision.

Places people frequent tend to build up a layer or two of ghosts and lingering Grey things after a while and the campus of PNU had collected its share. So long as I kept my eyes straight ahead, I could keep the vague, uncanny figure that flowed along beside me in my peripheral vision. If I turned my head, it seemed to vanish, though I knew that was just the treacherous nature of the Grey. I held it at bay for now.

The ghost turned and faded through me as I stopped in front of my destination. John Hall was a squat Art Deco building of yellow brick and odd-sized windows.

I suppose the intent of the architect was a warm, golden building with glinting windows that filled the interior with light. Time and use had made the building look grubby and half blind where the windows had been covered up inside. I peered at it, letting the chill and the cloudy light of the Grey well up around me.

I was reluctant to step all the way into the Grey and take a clear look at that yellow shaft of energy. Bad enough that I was standing out in public looking at it, without risking going all translucent and slippy myself.

I had no idea what anyone else would see if I let myself go through to the deep Grey. I knew what I would see, though: black emptiness and a blazing grid of lines that describes the world in hot colors of energy and potential magic—this was the inexplicably alive thing I could not describe to Mara or anyone else.

That gleaming yellow shaft looked like part of the grid and I was willing to bet it ran through room twelve. I pushed the Grey back to a controlled flicker and entered St. Although there was a small reception desk in the entryway, no one was manning it. I just signed the guest ledger and took myself upstairs. Room twelve was at the front of the third floor, right across from the stairs.

The door labeled





Kat Richardson






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