I'm Rosaline Saul and I love writing urban fantasy stories about immortals, time travellers, ghosts, vampires, and witches, with a liberal spoonful of sweet romance.

I am writing a new story and I post a new chapter every Friday.

Life and death collide in this haunting YA urban fantasy about a teen ghost hunter searching for answers and longing for the mysterious girl who speaks to the dead.

Seventeen-year-old Thursday's world is shattered when his beloved grandparents die in a tragic car accident. Desperate to know if there is an afterlife and if he'll ever see his grandparents again, Thursday becomes obsessed with ghost hunting.

While exploring an abandoned cemetery, Thursday crosses paths with the intriguing and secretive Fallon, who seems to effortlessly communicate with the dead. As Thursday gets closer to Fallon, he realizes there's more to her than meets the eye. An alluring aura surrounds her, and unearthly abilities seem to come naturally to her.

Together, Thursday and Fallon begin helping wayward souls complete their unfinished business on earth. But Thursday wants more than to just send spirits into the light. He wants answers only Fallon may hold, even if it means unraveling the mysteries of life and death itself.

As Thursday and Fallon grow closer while delving deeper into the spirit realm, dangers threaten to sever their bond. Thursday finds himself longing for someone who can never fully be his. But are some bonds too powerful for even death to break?

Full of hope, heartache, and haunting romance, Pushing Daisies explores the timeless question of what happens after we die. Its gripping supernatural mystery and ghostly romantic thriller will keep young adult readers rapidly turning pages late into the night.

He had visited countless cemeteries and places rumoured to be haunted in search of paranormal activity, but none had ever been quite like the one he found himself in that night.

It was an old, abandoned cemetery on the outskirts of the town. The headstones were crooked and cracked, and the weeds grew tall around them. It was the kind of place that gave him the chills no matter how used he was to seeing it every day as part of what he did – to get a glimpse of how scary death might be.

He had heard rumours of strange happenings in this cemetery. People had reported seeing apparitions, hearing disembodied voices, and feeling an overwhelming sense of dread. As soon as he heard these stories, he knew he had to investigate and that was what brought him cross country. He was always on the road, traveling from one destination to the other, and he was not one to stick around, being in one town for more than a day was one day too many. Some might have said that his soul was restless, and usually when they did, he only smiled.

The view from the cemetery was beautiful and he could see across fields and hills all the way to the horizon where the sky was painted in shades of orange and pink as the sun was setting. The air was still and silent. He took a deep breath as he stepped through the tall rusty gate with ornate swirls of unreadable letters above his head. The smells of fermented moss and decay filled him with a sense of belonging.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and it became a whole lot darker, he walked among the headstones drawn to the far corner of the cemetery. The oldest, most forgotten part. The air was thick with an eerie energy, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. This was the first time that he had ever experienced the prickly sensation at the back of his neck that he had heard described by others, but he pushed on, determined to uncover whatever secrets this place held.

It wasn't long before he heard a faint whisper.

He stopped in his tracks, listening intently.

At first, he couldn't make out what was being said but as he got closer to a particular headstone, the whisper grew louder. He approached the headstone cautiously, his heart pounding with excitement in his chest. As he got even closer, he realized that the whisper was coming from beneath the ground.

He knew what he had to do. He had done it so many times before. He reached into his bag and pulled out his equipment. He rested his EVP recorder on the dry, cracked ground in front of the crumbling gravestone, and asked, “Who are you,” hoping to capture a response but not really expecting an answer as was the case so many other times when he had asked the same question in other locations.

He waited a moment and then retrieved the EVP recorder from the ground. After he rewinded the tape a little, he listened to the playback, holding the device close to his ear. To his surprise, he received a response almost immediately. The voice was soft and ethereal, but unmistakable. It sounded like a woman's voice, and it seemed to be answering his question. It was without a doubt direct communication with someone in the spirit world. When he had asked the voice who it was, it responded with a name: Margaret.

He asked Margaret, “How did you die? Do you know you are dead?

As he asked the second question, the wind abruptly whipped the air around him so hard that the tails of his long black trench coat flapped in the wind behind him like crow’s wings. The whisper from beneath the grave grew more urgent, more insistent. Suddenly, the whispering stopped. The air grew cold, and he felt an icy chill tickle down his spine like a million fingertips playing piano on his spine. He felt a dark presence, a malevolent force and then there she was. A ghostly figure, pale and translucent. Her eyes were sunken and dark, and her hair hung in tangled strands around her face but what struck him the most was the expression on her face. It was twisted in a snarl of anger and hatred, a look that chilled him to the bone.

He tried to back away, but to his horror found that he could not move. It was as if he was frozen in place, held there by some unseen force.

The ghost began to move closer and closer, her eyes fixed on his. He could feel her cold breath on his face, and he knew that he was in danger.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The cold air dissipated, and the ghost vanished.

The eerie silence that followed was broken only by the sound of his own shaky breaths. What had just happened? He had encountered countless spirits in his years as a ghost hunter, but none had ever exhibited such a malevolent presence.

A voice, a few gravestones over, called out to him and he thought with panic that the ordeal was not yet over. He had investigated a lot of most haunted places, but never had such a deep fear permeated his entire being – from the depths of his soul to the tippy-tip of each strand of his hair. He stumbled and barely managed to keep his balance as he twisted around in the direction of the voice.

A girl was sitting on a grave on the fringe of a circle of pale-yellow light from one of the lamps that dotted the pathway snaking its way through the cemetery. Her back was leaning against the headstone and her legs were pulled up to her chest. She had a daisy pushed in the fold of her ear and the white petals were stark against her dark hair. All around her hundreds of daisies grew from the ground and it looked as if she was sitting on a carpet of little white flowers. She was watching him with an amused look on her face. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re a ghost hunter.”

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