Along with John Grisham and Ted Decker, who are probably my two favorite, DJ MacHale and with his Pendragon series is up on the list with them. There is nothing extreme or elegant about how DJ MacHale writes, it's more like your reading a normal persons dialogue. Sentences that don't have a subject and a verb, interjections, uncompleted thoughts, stuttering, and simple explanations of the plot fill every page. But what makes DJ MacHale is not how he presents the plot, but the plot(s) themselves. He always has two, sometimes more stories going on in different places that all have a connection that you don't know until the end. It's this that makes DJ MacHale high on my list.



The grass crunched under his feet, the cold winter freezing the whole ground. He closed the gate, shutting it slowly to not wake the neighbors, and turned looking at the house.
"Home sweet home," he whispered. He began to curl up the ends of his lips, almost smirking and then made his way to the back door.
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Susan watched him drive off until she couldn't see the car anymore, and continued to stare for some time, reflecting on the night. What a great guy.
She strode up her walkway listening to her heels on the concrete: click, clack, click, clack.
What a great guy. His smile, his personality, it was a perfect first date.
She continued up the walkway, thinking of what may become of the two of them. She laughed, remembering one of the jokes he made over dinner.
What a great guy.
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He jerked the door open, the ice cracking around the frame. He paused, listened for any movement and then closed the door behind him. He shivered.
"It's even colder in her." He paused, looking around, trying to catch his bearings. He took a few steps, now calm, and began to search the room.
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Susan opened her front door, hoping to see him standing there with arms wide inviting her in. But instead, she entered her dark house alone. She had never been so happy with someone since her divorce almost twenty years ago.
She closed the door behind herself, feeling alone again by herself. She already missed him.
She made her way to the kitchen in the dark, knowing her way from her long lived life in the house.
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The door opening the the other room made him freeze. His eyes strained to find the source in the dark, his ears opened for the littlest of sound, and his breath slowed into long silent heaves. There was a pause and he relaxed, telling himself it was him imagination. But then he froze again: click, clack, click, clack.
A dark figure entered the room at the other end, followed by the flick of a light switch. A woman stood there, dumbfounded for a minute staring at him. And then her eyes filled with fear.
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Susan flicked on the kitchen light, paused for a moment and then screamed.
"Get out! Get out! What are you doing in my house!"
The man dressed in all black scurried to the back door and threw it open. He took a quick glance back at Susan and then darted across the backyard and over the fence.
Susan continued to scream and ran for the phone, dialed 911 and feeling more alone than ever.