Welcome to the December 9th guest post stop on the blog tour for The Haunting of the Gallagher Hotel by K.T. Rose, organized by Lola’s Blog Tours. Be sure to follow the rest of the tour for more excerpt spotlights, reviews, other guest posts by the author, and interview with the author, and a giveaway! (More on that at the end of this post.
What piqued my interest in this book when the tour opportunity came up was the name, Gallagher. A family with that name had two kids, one my age and one two years older, who went all the way through K-12 in the same schools that I attended. Since my maiden name is Galland, naturally that meant their son and I were consecutive names on roll call, side by side in every yearbook, and side by side in any arrangement of kids by name. Beyond this family, though, I’ve never met another Gallagher. The name only has one association for me. So this got me thinking about names and inspiration. I’m an aspiring author myself, and coming up with names for characters and things and places is a finicky task. When Lola asked me to suggest a topic for K. T. Rose to write about for the guest post you’re about to read, that’s what I chose to ask about: Inspiration and names.
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Top Ten Places where Horror Writers find Inspiration
We all have our process. Part of the process includes visiting places that helps a writer get inspired enough to finish their next novel. Here is a list of places I seek out for inspiration while planning or writing my stories.
- Twitter- There are tons of people to follow that aren’t just writers. I follow dark artist, horror movie fanatics, and anyone who does anything horror related (including urban explorers). They tweet interesting pictures, GIFs, and polls about horror movies and books (both classic and contemporary), and they share their creepy art with the world. It’s great to follow those who have an explicit interest in your genre. To make my life easier, I put them on specially curated lists where I can retweet whatever catches my attention easily without having to dig through my timeline. The Twitter page isn’t just a place to share current and upcoming projects, it’s a place to meet like-minded individuals, giving you the opportunity to see where their interests lie.
- Pinterest– I love making idea boards for the books that I’m writing. It gives me a keen idea on the content that I want to add to my books which includes world and character building, mood, and tone. For the Haunting of Gallagher Hotel, you’ll find dark art, pictures from the 1920s, and innocent looking people with demon-like shadows throughout the board. It shines light on the theme of the story and gives a structured glimpse into my thought process.
- Facebook– The concept is the same as Twitter’s, but with a different interface. I can’t tell you how many times I found myself asking for advice in the many writing groups across Facebook. It’s easy to find a hub of writers in your genre who are ready to help without an issue. You can also start your own group and strike up a conversation about your favorite books and movies in your preferred genre.
- Spotify– I LOVE music! When I began playing saxophone, I found a deep love for musicianship. From Stevie Wonder to Tame Impala, I am always listening to something, especially while I’m writing. Each book I write has a playlist that I share with the public. And when I say each book, I’m super serious. I feel like sharing that bit of information is important; it gives the reader a feel for what could’ve been going through your mind while you wrote their next favorite story.
- Bookstores- I was just at the bookstore picking up some new reads when I decided to browse outside of the horror genre. I was shocked to see most of the store in the Magna and fantasy areas. This is a good way to see what everyone’s reading. Dark Fantasy is next on my list of things-to-write.
- Library– Same as the bookstore, but you get the bonus of writing in a peaceful setting.
- Before bed– Most of my characters come to me as I’m lying there convincing myself that it’s time to go to sleep. My mind is constantly on overload, looking and finding new projects for me to work on. But my favorite time is when I’m dozing off and the voices start. Last time, I saw a girl in a dank, wooden attic. Her pale face was sunken, and boney limbs barely lifted her from the splintering floor. She begged me to help her escape the witch’s attic. Apparently, she was taken from a caravan on its way west to join in on the Gold Rush when she and her family stopped to help an old woman who could barely walk along the dirt road. THERE’S AN IDEA! The main character looked like a Cloe to me. So there you have it: Cloe is the witch’s last slave. How will she escape? How long has she been there? The dream world is full of ideas if you care to listen.
- Home Office- I love my home office. It’s comfortable, stylish, and all ME. I game there, pay bills there, write there, edit there, and monitor promotional performances there. I absolutely love my personal writing space that’s tailored to my liking from the color, to the second monitor.
- Car- I do a lot of thinking in the car. Driving is such a second nature task that I can’t help but to construct plots, think about what I’m writing, plug plot holes, address editor’s comments, and so forth. Why not? I’m only sitting in the car. I’ve had plenty of eureka moments in the driver’s seat, making me more eager to get home and fix some stuff or move onto the next phase.
- Lunch break- There’s something about speed writing that gets me going. There’s only an hour for lunch, so the challenge is to get as many ideas down on paper as humanly possible. I do this exercise when I write: write for an hour, take a twenty-minute break, and continue for about five hours total. It’s a fun way to push yourself to get that first draft done.
I hope this list explains where I gather inspiration. Follow the links to see how some of these ideas played into the creation of my paranormal horror novel, The Haunting of Gallagher Hotel.
About the Book
The Haunting of Gallagher Hotel
by K.T. Rose
Published 4 November 2020
Genre: Supernatural Horror
Page Count: 344
Add it to your Goodreads TBR!
Pride and greed infect the soul, anchoring the dead to Gallagher Hotel.
When Chris, a master thief, and Riley, a contract waitress, get mysterious invites to an exclusive party at the haunted Gallagher Hotel, they discover that there is more at play than simple celebrations.
Hidden truths are revealed, and all hell breaks loose. But the “party” has just begun.
Now, Chris and Riley face their demons as they fight to survive a hellish nightmare full of spoiled secrets, carnage, and vengeful spirits lost to the hotel dating back to the turn of the 20th century.
Will they survive the night? Or will their souls be devoured by the most haunted building in Michigan?
She’ll never forget the day she died.
Torch flames lit up the town’s square, illuminating scowling and shouting faces. They launched stones and spit, pegging Trudy’s arms and face as she trudged through the abhorrent mob. Trudy cringed when a pebble struck her cheek. Pain erupted, shooting through her face like lightning striking the earth.
Deputy Hill yanked her arm, leading her through the narrow path the townspeople opened up. Fists balled, Trudy groaned as the rope around her wrists dug into her skin. Her bare feet picked up glass shards and debris from the cobblestone path as she shuffled along.
She glared around at the angry faces and recognized the men, women, and children of Holloway. She’d done more for them than any God before her. Many of those people owned the very businesses that lined the stone slab she marched across that night. Building and financing the rows of wooden businesses lining the town’s square accounted for half the things she’d done for Holloway. She fed the hungry, made clothes for cold children, and taught woman’s independence. The ever-growing list of the townspeople’s wants was endless. At one point, she didn’t mind the busy work. Fulfilling dreams of the once poor town kept her boisterous and distracted from her bitter reality. Trudy was Holloway’s personal shepherd, making the people her needy sheep.
Hands snagged at her lavender tea gown, adding dirty prints to the blood drops and grime from the beatings in that putrid cell. She glared at the bare-faced man towering over her. The brim of his Deputy hat cast a thick shadow, hiding his dark eyes and pale face.
Deputy would miss her. She was sure of it. He got off on the assaults that bruised her face. His heavy fists pounded her bones and scraped her skin until she confessed. And even her confession, he continued with his evening visits, slamming her body into cinder block walls and passing off open-handed blows to her nose, cheeks and eyes.
Trudy sighed. A bath with lavender and Epsom salt sounded good for the swelling. She didn’t realize how bloated and purple her once beautiful, smooth, fair skin had become until she passed by the picture window in front of the town’s jail just before they began her walk of shame.
Even then, her face pulsed with intense hurt. Pain shot through it whenever she winced.
The sea of convictions roared, growing louder as she drew closer to the opposite end of the square.
“Adulterer,” yelled a woman.
“Traitor,” screeched a boy.
“Murderer,” said a pot-bellied man.
Their accusations sent a sickening jolt through her bones. She watched the path underneath her slowing feet, fighting back tears.
How could they turn on me like this?
“Why’d you do it?” Trudy glared over her shoulder to find the small voice. Off to the right, a pale, round-faced girl sobbed. Arms across her belly, she grasped the sides of her smock dress: one of Trudy’s latest designs. She released it to Mary and Belle’s Boutique not even a month prior. “I looked up to you,” the girl shouted.
Trudy froze. The child would never understand. Holding the girl’s crying eyes in her own, Trudy thought, I did this for you.
She caught the faces of women shouting and screeching, advocating her death.
I did it for all of you.
“Eyes front!” Deputy said; his authoritative baritone struck Trudy in the gut. She frowned and did what she was told: eyes forward; just like the man demanded. She watched her last stop approach in that ungrateful, dying town. After all the fighting, this is how it ends. She swallowed the ball in her throat, bowed her head, and pressed on.
With every step, she drew closer to the burnt building just beyond the angry mob. Charred and blackened, there it sat, blending with the night beyond the crowd’s orange flames. It moved her to tears to see her building reduced to rubble. The roof caved in, falling through the attic and second floor. The blast left the double-paned windows bare, with nothing to see inside but burnt walls and a black staircase. A crooked beam leaned over the arched door frame where the door held onto the bottom hinges as the top had burned away.
She scoffed. The people got creative, tying the noose to the end of the beam. Underneath it, a wooden crate.
“You people are about to make a serious mistake,” Trudy hissed.
“You should save your breath for your last words,” Deputy said. He led her to the crate. “Step up,” he said.
Legs shaking, she placed a bare foot on the crate and hauled herself up. The ground seemed miles below. Her head lightened and the jitters threatened to knock her onto the charred floor that used to be the honey waxed porch outside the front door.
“Turn around,” Deputy said.
Trudy turned and faced the prosecuting crowd. She grunted when a stone slammed into her forehead, pushing her off balance. She caught her footing and fought to stand straight as a heavy dizziness whipped around her head.
A cluster of women, including her sisters Belle and Mary, stood amongst the mob. Their faces, glossed in tears, glimmered in the flickering lights. They held her glance for what felt like hours, their eyes begging for an answer.
Trudy had an answer for what she did but didn’t see the need in telling them. It was already too late.
Slowly, they turned and pushed their way through the excited crowd, sauntering off in their fine silk lampshade tunics. Trudy remembered the day she’d bought those for them. She bought the boutique and the bakery for the girls, as well. Her heart raced as she cried. She expected backlash from the town, but never from Mary and Belle. As she watched her sisters leave her behind, Trudy went dead inside for the third and final time in her life.
Deputy pulled the loop over her head and tightened the knot, fastening it. Her throat shrank and butterflies circled her belly. Through heavy gasps, she said, “You know this town wouldn’t have grown without me.”
Deputy stepped back and faced the crowd. He pulled a note from his trouser pocket and opened it. Then, he reached into the breast pocket of his deputy button up and pulled his reading glasses free. He placed them on his face and looked over the note.
“You—you people wanted to bring money into this town,” Trudy yelled. “I caught the train over to Detroit and made connections that brought the money here! You people wanted Mayor Tucker out of office. I made him disappear! I paid the price to make Holloway the train-stop town that it is today! I made it Saloon Alley! While you people collected money from tourists and travelers, I was out there making deals that made us rich!”
“Quiet, whore,” a man shouted.
“Hang the killer,” a woman yelled.
Deputy cleared his throat and raised a hand. The crowd fell silent.
“Trudy Mona Lisa Gallagher, you have been charged with the following crimes against the town of Holloway, Michigan: destruction of property, conspiracy to commit murder, murder, and arson. You have been formally convicted by the people of Holloway and I, Sheriff Deputy Davidson Lee Hill. You were not allowed a trial as Judge Benjamin Rowles, District Attorney Allen Clyde Albright, and Sheriff Peter Kyle Louis have all perished on this very spot along with Michigan’s Governor Brighton James Fisher, Mayor Richard Tucker, Mrs. Louise Fisher, Mrs. Patricia Tucker, Mrs. Madeleine Albright, and Mrs. Freda Albany Louis.”
The mob gasped and fell into hushed chatter.
“Also, amongst the dead are nineteen souls including the hotel’s waitstaff, maids, pianist, and bartender. I am sad to say that this will haunt Holloway forever.
“Our investigation concluded that you planted homemade explosives and barred those poor souls inside. You are sentenced to death by hanging on the grounds where your explosions claimed innocent lives. All that stand witness, aside from the townspeople of Holloway, are your two sisters, Mary Karen Welch and Belle Leanora Roth. Your husband, Ulysses Gallagher, God rest his soul, must flip and twist in his grave. He died in the muds of enemy territory for all of us. How you can defy him with your heinous behavior is beyond me.” He moved his eyes from his note and onto the mob. “Trudy Gallagher has lain with politicians and bootleggers alike to push her own sinister agenda. She poisoned the streets of Holloway with hooch, prostitutes, thieves, and brawlers. She is an illness to this town and needs to be extinguished before she harms anyone else.”
He turned to Trudy. “You are a disgrace, and, in my opinion, hanging isn’t enough of a punishment. I wanted the firing squad to take you down.” He flexed his neck and huffed. “However, after days of deliberation by the people of Holloway, this is the conclusion to your life of manipulation, greed, and murder.
“Reverend Pillars wanted to say a prayer for you, but the people would rather not waste any more time. But they will grant you your last words, an attempt at getting an explanation, perhaps. What say you?”
Tears fell down her face. The taunting and accusations made her chest swell. She inhaled deep and pushed a weak breath through her shaking lips. She understood the risks associated with her lifestyle. Keeping up with deals and tracking lies day in and day out was enough to drive anyone mad. But the rewards and freedom that came along with those risks changed her for the better. Trudy became the most powerful woman in Holloway. The reward was well deserved, and in the name of Ulysses, she’d claim the crown even after death.
“Did you hear me?” Deputy asked.
The people groaned and gasped.
Deputy cleared his throat. “Murder is funny to you?”
She sighed and shook her head. “No.” She looked him in the eye. “But I’ve begged no one for anything before, and I won’t start now. Those people deserved what they got and if I had another chance, I’d do it again. No one stands in my way. Not you, not these people, and not the bastards who blew up.” She scoffed. “In fact, if I had the chance, I’d do the same to all you ungrateful imbeciles.” She glared at the faces of her persecutors. Faces that trusted her before. Faces she strived to keep happy. Faces that could burn in hell alongside the others. “I always win, and when you all go to sleep tonight, I want my words to sit deep in your conscience. I don’t beg.” She narrowed her eyes. “I take,” she growled.
Deputy nodded, disdain across his face. It tickled Trudy’s heart to see him disappointed. He might take her life, but he’d never hear her apologize. He didn’t deserve it, and neither did they.
“Burn in hell,” he said.
Cheers filled the square as Deputy kicked the crate, sweeping it from underneath her.
Her body dropped and the sound of snapping bones erupted in her ears.
About the Author
K.T. Rose is a horror, thriller, and dark fiction writer from Detroit, Michigan. She posts suspense and horror flash fiction on her blog at kyrobooks.com and is the author of a suspenseful short story series titled Trinity of Horror, an erotic thriller novel titled When We Swing, and A Dark Web Horror Series. She also writes supernatural and paranormal horror novels and short stories.
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