William Hammett, Independent Ghostwriter

Nonfiction ~ Psychic

Note: The following excerpt has been used with the permission of a former client and/or the publisher. Please note that I can adjust my prose style for a particular genre, and the following is not intended to represent my full range of styles or the number of genres I consider. For nonfiction, the level of complexity can be adjusted depending on client preference.

My parents were surprisingly understanding. They called it a gift. "It" was my ability to sense future events or aspects of life hidden from normal sensory input. Some premonitions were innocuous, like the scene of Uncle Dan slipping on a piece of wrapping paper at my twelfth birthday party. Others were more disturbing, as when I knew with certainty that my best friend's mother was having an affair.

I eventually learned to embrace my gift and attempted to use it in a positive manner by working as a consultant with the Topeka Police Department on homicide and missing person cases. The migraines started as my caseload increased. There were too many unsavory characters roaming the mean streets of the twentieth century, so I quit. I wasn't going to jeopardize my health, mental or physical.

A year later, I dreamt that my father, a worker at an oil refinery, would be killed in an explosion. In my dream, I yelled at my dad as loudly as I could, urging him to leave the plant immediately. I called my parents' home at 3 a.m. to warn him, but my mother answered, informing me that Dad was filling in for a friend on the graveyard shift.

Frantically, I dialed the number of the refinery, hoping to get in touch with Dad. He knew of my gift and would doubtless heed my warning, but what of his co-workers? Would he be able to convince them to evacuate without a great deal of explanation?

I panicked. All I heard through the earpiece were electronic beeps indicating that the plant's telephone number was not currently in service. Unfortunately, Dad was not allowed to carry his cell at work since microwaves near oil lines constituted what was termed a "combustible hazard." Turning on the TV, I learned that tank number four had exploded an hour earlier.

I cried for the next ten minutes – cried loud, my shoulders shaking hard-until the telephone rang.

"Hi, honey," my father said in a calm voice. "I've been on break at the diner on Rail Street. I wanted you to know I was safe. About an hour and a half ago, I had the strangest feeling that I should leave the plant for a while."

Dream big.

Write a book.



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