There are some who say you should start at the beginning. I’m not one of them. I hate long drawn out stories that go on and on until your eyes cross. Just give me the nitty gritty.

Yet if I told you about the night I died, you might shake your head at what sounds like a bizarre ghost story. But I am no ghost, and this is no ghost story, even with a Cherokee and Irish heritage heavy on other worldly beings like Leprechauns and Little People. In this case, Little People aren’t a politically correct way of referring to people short in stature. Little People are magical beings--cousins to the Leprechauns--according to my Cherokee grandmother.

Hidden deep in the hills of eastern Oklahoma, the Little People rarely show themselves to humans. Sometimes they make exceptions for curious children never seen again. Both grandmothers, Cherokee and Irish, warned me from the time I started to walk never to follow flickers of light. Fireflies or lightning bugs, most people called them. Little People, my grandmothers insisted. Although my parents claimed that Little People were just folklore, I received my one and only spanking after I went looking for the Little People at the wise age of seven. Unsuccessfully, I might add. I’m still waiting to see the Little People.

Modern day people scoff at the idea of Little People. But the older I get, the more things my grandmothers told me make sense. So why not Little People? I suppose it doesn't really matter though. Little People had nothing to do with murder on a college campus.

Five Star Press

978-1-4328-2593-5