By Barbara Michaels
There are negative secrets and techniques from generations previous buried at Maidenwood. scientific pupil Julie Newcomb has lower back to her family's decaying plantation—the website of such a lot of painful formative years memories—to are inclined to her tyrannical grandmother, felled via a stroke. the fireplace of malevolence nonetheless burns within the merciless, despotic matriarch's eyes—yet, for Julie, a faint spark of redemption and moment percentages sparkles during this hated, haunted position. yet her hope—and her life—are heavily threatened via a nightmare reborn . . . and through the bleak discovery at the lonely highway to Maidenwood of the earth-browned skeletons of a mom and baby.
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There were a liquor store, a gift shop, a McDonald’s…I would not have believed the golden arches could be so enticing. I hadn’t even seen a newspaper for four days. I bought groceries and booze and stowed them in the Jeep before heading for the drugstore. The coffee shop was part of it, and when I went in I saw Alan in one of the booths, his head bent over the papers spread on the table. He used to complain about the amount of paperwork necessary in a dig… I acquired an armful of magazines and paperbacks and newspapers.
Great-Great-Grandpa had really screwed his descendants; the objects he had disposed of, probably for pennies, were fetching five-and six-figure prices at antique auctions these days. I suspected the late Victorian replacements had some value, since antique freaks are into Victorian these days, but they weren’t of much use to me since most were too heavy to be moved. I swiped the mattress from the only bedroom, aside from Martha’s, that was decently furnished. Shirley confirmed my assumption that it was the guest room, occupied by Matt when he condescended to spend the night.
It’s been a long time. You’re looking—you look—uh—” I would never have known him. He had been a tall, burly man with a red flush of health under his tan and a ready grin. The face that looked back at me was that of a well-preserved mummy, the cheeks cadaverous, the wrinkles etched as if by acid, sour-shaped and ugly. His 50 / Barbara Michaels lips parted just enough to let a few words squeeze out. “Evening, Julie. ” “Fine, thank you. How is…” I couldn’t recall the girl’s name, much less that of her brother, whom I hadn’t known as well.