It goes a little like this:
One second, 12-year-old Monty Slaybaugh is screwing off, killing time before the birthday pool party to end all birthday pool parties. The next second...
Monty's dead.
He's not in Heaven. He's not in Hell. He's a ghost. One more shuffling shiftless soul in the Game Room - a rust-colored wasteland, the dustbowl of the damned.
Shown the ectoplasmic ropes by a former shopping mall Santa's helper, Monty even trips back to the land of the living only to discover the girl he never even got to kiss is in danger. A sadistic killer is closing in on her.
No one can see Monty. No one can hear Monty.
He can't touch anything. He can't even "ghost" through anything. He's a little boy ghost. A joke.
And like any of the dead on either side of the great divide, Monty must obey the rules. Those rules have enforcers. Ghosts can hang for their crimes. Ghosts can forfeit their souls.
The clock is ticking. Caught between the cruel enforcers of the afterlife and the evil intentions of the living, Monty is about to discover there is more than one way to exit the skin palace.
Previously, it went like this:
You're 12.
One second, you're screwing off, killing time before the birthday pool party to end all birthday pool parties.
The next second...
You're dead.
You're not in Heaven.
You're not in Hell.
You're a ghost.
You're just another shuffling shiftless soul in the vast, arid, rust-colored wasteland, the dustbowl of the damned.
You can go back.
You can visit the land of the living.
You might even discover the girl you liked is in danger.
The girl you never even got to kiss.
A killer is closing in on her.
You can try to save her.
But realize...
No one can see you.
No one can hear you.
You can't touch anything.
You can't "ghost" through anything.
You're a boy ghost.
A joke.
And remember...
On either side of the great divide, the dead must obey the rules.
Those rules have enforcers.
Ghosts can hang for their crimes.
Ghosts can forfeit their souls.
There's more than one way to exit the skin palace...
The same sauce, but now specific. The Stand has a bit where King describes Harold Lauder as one of those people that write fiction from the 'You' POV ("You're hated by everyone. Little do they know, you hate them, too.").
For some reason, old age no doubt, I can't get Smashwords' pre-order page to upload a damned thing. I sent an urgent message to their help desk. Given the national holiday, I'm sure they'll hop all over it.
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