Dr. Pamela Eagleston, heavy metal roadie turned FBI Special Agent, now Chairman of the billion-dollar Eagleston Foundation, takes a break from her  hectic corporate life to accompany her fiancé, novelist Sean MacDonald, to his home town for a book-signing. Unaware that 30 years ago, Sean placed a small headstone in the church cemetery in memory of his first love, Judith, marking a grave never dug for a body never found, bearing the inscription .....


 Drawn to the now abandoned cemetery, Sean regrets his decision

to come home, when he discovers the headstone now reads .....


the words  AND and   SEAN

scratched into the stone as if with a fingernail.

 Fictional characters are easy for Sean MacDonald to write about: he gives them life with a few dozen keystrokes and takes it away just as easily, all without a second thought. But Judith is a different story, one that she is determined to write the ending to and collect on Sean's unpaid promise; and with interest.

 When Judith slips into Pamela's body,
to relive, to feel and to steal Pamela's every intimate moment with Sean, every fantasy, every lustful touch and taste, every orgasm, in an effort to lure Sean back to her, then kill Pamela, we are witness to a savage psycho-sexual life-or-death battle between two powerful women ....... one who is of this world, one who is not ....... that will leave  readers rethinking who they sleep with, where, and what they promise in the heat of passion, for .....

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned' 

 "Donald Beman delivers real fear!" 

Douglas Clegg

Author of The Infinite.

What Some Critics Have Said About My Novels

Examples of my Published Novels

  • Magic Carpet Ride4:24

WordShop Publications    Copyright 2017 Donald K. Beman    All Rights Reserved


          The only light in the enormous showroom, half the size of a football field, was from the skylights two stories up. The air was still, musty, reminiscent of the smell of stale sweat in a gymnasium. Bronze, marble and abstract Erector-Set metal sculptures cast eerie shadows onto the walls and hardwood floor. In the center of the exhibition was a monumental bronze statue of a naked woman, easily twice Sean's six foot height, her arm outstretched and holding something, which was blocked from Sean's view by the wings of a hideous part-bird, part-man fiberglass fabrication.

          Ducking down, weaving his way through the metallic maze, Sean inched closer.
          "Oh shit!" he gasped, when he saw that the Herculean woman was holding the head of a man, his marble-white eyes
filled with horror, his mouth cast open in a silent scream that echoed through Sean's mind. The man's long hair slithered through the fingers of the woman's clenched fist and coiled around her powerful forearm.
          "Do you like it?" a woman asked, her voice soft yet strong, confident.
           Startled, Sean spun around to find a short shadowy figure cloaked in a black floor-length caftan. 
Her eyes were a curious swirl of cerulean blue and midnight black, her nostrils flared, her lips thick but nonetheless womanly. Her long auburn hair, soft and silky, fell off her shoulders and cascaded down her back to her waist. Beneath the caftan was a noticeable hump on her back, twisting her body into a permanent shrug.

            "Mademoiselle Moriah?" Sean asked somewhat nervously.
            "Please ... just Moriah," she said softly, then raised her hand.

            Sean followed her gesture. To his surprise, her hand was easily twice the size of his hand, her fingers thick, gnarled, as if having been broken, never set, and left to heal that way. Moriah tapped the air with her finger. "What do you think of my work?"
            Sean replied without hesitation. "I love it and I hate it at the same time."
            Moriah laughed, a deep throaty womanly laugh, and asked, "Love and hate, Doctor MacDonald, can that be?"
            "I love it because it makes me feel without thinking, And I hate it for the same reason. It, and in reality you as the creator of this sculpture are stronger than I am."
            Hesitating, gazing at Sean, Moriah half-whispered, "Thank you." She then limped out of the shadow of the bronze, stopped an arm's length away from Sean.

            Moriah slipped her large knarled fingers around Sean's hand. Her touch was  gentle, but at the same time frighteningly powerful. Out of habit, something men often do, Sean tightened his grip only to feel his hand being swallowed up in hers. When he relaxed his hold on her, Moriah held firm, adding to his growing sense of insecurity.
            Moriah smiled, as if she had read his thoughts, and gave Sean his freedom.


"Beman not only writes well, he has a gift for paranoia,

too, 'a la Richard Matheson and Stephen King."

Mystery Scene

"Unforgettable eerie and sensual. Not to be missed!"
J. N. Williamson author of SpreeDark MasquesBloodlines,

The Haunt and dozens of other best selling horror novels.