Once upon a midnight mild in Lawrenceville, Georgia, an author emerged from a Jeep coated in dust, caffeine, and questionable decisions. She wasn’t just any author, she was a cryptid magnet with a PhD in microbiology, a veterinary degree, and a vendetta against em dashes so fierce even haunted typewriters refuse to use them in her presence. 

By day, she restored abandoned Southern mansions, politely declining every spectral roommate with the phrase, “I don’t do roommates unless they’re fictional, furry, or pay rent.” By night, she stitched together tales where banshees found peace, space warlords found love, and cursed antiques found new homes, usually in her own parlor. Monsters didn’t scare her. Misused punctuation did. 

Her prose cuts clean and deep, equal parts moonlight and menace, with worlds so immersive even her cats occasionally fell into plot holes. Her characters? Haunted librarians with a secret whiskey stash. Alien generals with anger issues and dimples. Retired horror writers with live-in boogeymen. They bickered, bonded, and broke your heart, all before breakfast. 

She weaves cozy horror and sci-fi romance with Southern gothic charm, sneaking tenderness into terror, and love into the lair of the beast. Readers came for the cryptids and stayed for the feelings. And when things got too quiet? She’d whisper, “I think someone is standing behind you in the mirror,” just to make sure no one was sleeping easy. 

Because in her stories, even the shadows have personality. And in her world, every monster gets a second chance, except the em dash. That thing can rot.