"...The Ditchwalkers by Morgana MacArthur may be read on two levels: as a paranormal romance and as an examination of values and belief. Tammy and Mo's romance seems doomed from the beginning, yet their attraction cannot be denied. As ditchwalkers attempt to corrupt the town of Providence, they reveal how even a town that cherishes its godliness may still nurture fear, deceit, hypocrisy and intolerance. As Christian beliefs, Wiccan beliefs, and paranormal elements collide, readers find themselves questioning their own paradigms. Surprisingly, the author's evenhanded approach to spiritual beliefs neither discounts nor belittles Christian or Wiccan belief; instead, MacArthur honors both as paths to the Divine that must work together to overcome the evil that threatens the town of Providence. This stunningly original novel earns the WordWeaving Award for Excellence."—Cindy Penn, WordWeaving

"Good vs. evil like you've never seen it before. Morgana MacArthur weaves a tale of Twilight Zone proportion. Thoroughly enjoyable. Highly recommended for fans of paranormal and SciFi or anyone looking for an immensely entertaining read."—Catherine Snodgrass, award-winning author of Always Faithful and Silk Dreams And Satin Lies"

"This book transcends the usual fare, offering complex characters forced to confront who they think they are and shatter their self-imposed limitations. Dr. MacArthur is a masterful storyteller with a wonderful gift for bringing both her characters and their surroundings to vivid life."—Elizabeth Burton, author of Dreams Of Darkness

...Dropped into a cinder tunnel upon his last mortal exhale, Mo had entered a rocky cave through a pair of silver swinging doors. A red glow lit the antechamber and illuminated smoky swirls that danced across the floor. The second-chance saloon of sorrow stunk like rotten eggs. Mo felt like he was in an oven.

A loud lady threw her grating voice toward Mo. “Next!” He swiveled toward the sound and saw her behind a tall metal counter. Her skin was carrot-colored from a combination of too much tanning and nicotine. Her shoulder-length gray hair was frizzy, and she was road-mapped with wrinkles.

Mo looked around. Except for the lady and him, the glowing lobby was empty.

“Hey, Mac. Belly up to the bar,” she commanded with her gritty voice. She motioned with her large hand for Mo to come closer. Her thick yellow nails were long and snagged.

“Name’s Mo, not Mac.” He stepped to the chest-high counter.

“Mac, Mo, Jack, Joe. No difference. You’re only a number down here, Bud.”

“What is ‘down here?’” he asked.

“Ever heard of Purgatory?” she answered with a question of her own.

Mo’s heart picked up an uncomfortable pace. “That place in between whiskey and wine? Too many times.”