I have always been fascinated by all things from myth and legend. The first book I ever bought ( for 75 cents, which made considerable inroads in my allowance at age eight) was “Fifty Famous Fairy Tales,” and I skipped through numberous enclycopedias for items about gods and goddesses, fairies and folk beliefs, and all things supernatural.
To alter best-selling author Laurens van der Post’s comment about his desire to write about the Bushmen of South Africa, “I am compelled toward ( paranormal suspense/ magic realism) like one who walks in his sleep obedient to a dream of finding in the dark what the day had denied him.” 
This desire led me, before I returned to fiction, to be a foresnsic consultant in occult-related material, events, practised and beliefs.
Regarding the array of excellent range of stories about vampires and weres and zombies, I felt ghosts in particular, and other paranormal creatures in general, were under represented. I discovered through research, that wraiths and specters as misty, insubstantial being was a modern perception, in the distant past, the unquiet dead– sometimes unquiet for reasons of murder or malice, sometimes from bewilderment–were corporeal.
So what if these paranormalities for some reason began to invade and appear in our normal world? Most citizens no doubt would demand exorcism, but an exorcist like Lillie should also strive for justice for the dead:
I sprawled on my behind on the grass. Johnny, on his knees beside me, busy with safety harness, said quietly, “That was damned risky, Lillie. Why did you do that?”
“Justice,” I said and toppled, down a tunnel of trubled voices into the dark.
Later, after a reviving whiff of oxygen and while I hunched in a blanket in the open doors of the second ambulance, I told him.
“Her sister pushed her. You’ll have to order them to dredge the well. Her bones are down there,” I said between chattering teeth while a paramedic, deprived of providing more substantial first aid and forced to cope with Johnny’s interference, cleaned and tut-tutted over the cut on my brow and applied fresh tape.
Johnny wrapped my shaking paws around a styrofoam cup. “Here, get this inside you…I spoke with the father. There was another daughter. She disappeared about fifty years ago. The woman we met, the eldest daughter, told everyone she saw her sister abducted, snatched off the sidewalk while the two of them played hop scotch. Bundled inot a car by a man who sped off.”
“What was her name? Names didn’t come up during our brief acquaintance.”
“I hear the mills of the gods grinding fine around you, St. Claire. He showed me her picture. Her name was Katie…But everyone called her ‘Kitten.’”
I couldn’t keep my mouth steady, so I gulped at my coffee and nearly choked. That accounted for the tears in my eyes when I raised my head.
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Here’s the blurb:
Science fiction world-building, as my fellow Carina Press author KS Augustin pointed out in 
After many years as a suburbanite whose only experience with the wilderness was in braving outlet store sales, Jacqueline Barbary followed a seductive devil into the wilds of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There, she spends her days immersed in passionate stories as dark and lovely as her surroundings with only an occasional foray into civilization for mint cappuccino and shoes.
People always seem curious about by name: Marcelle Dubé. Yes, I am French-Canadian. (I used to say I was half-French, until a boyfriend-du-jour said, “Yeah, the bottom half.” ::sigh:: ) It might interest you to know that there is a famous Québec playwright by the name of Marcel Dubé (male) and a well-known Québec painter also named Marcelle Dubé (female). What can I say? It’s all in the name!