A paranormal tale full of twists and turns with an ending you don't see coming! It is acleverly written story within a story.
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Outraged when The Pittsburgh Post Gazette overlooks him for a well deserved promotion, 39 year old Christian Kane quits and moves to the country to write fiction. Inspiration flows from a lone grave he stumbles upon in the woods. He compiles The legend of Rachel Petersen, a fascinating and horrorific tale of the 12 year old girl laid to rest under the stone. His book becomes a best seller, then Hollywood turns it in to a Box Office smash. Kane becomes rich and famous, only to have Rachel rise from her grave to seek revenge. Or does she?
"Maybe you can bullshit Mom, but you ain’t foolin’ me, Thaddy. How did you get so much dirt under your fingernails then? Musta been one helluva dirty tree that bear put you up,” Seth said sarcastically. Then he went on, in a parental scolding tone of voice, “I know what you were doin’ up on the ridge...you went up there an’ dug up Rachel Petersen’s grave. Didn’t ya? Don’t lie to me, Thaddeus.”
“Did no such thing, Seth,” Thaddeus answered rather defensively as he was about to plunge his spoon back into the soup, but froze. His eyes widened and his jaw fell open. Floating on top of the broth were the words... help me...spelled out with the alphabet macaroni! Thaddeus quickly stirred his soup and watched in awe as the words reappeared amongst the chunks of chicken, chopped celery and diced carrots....help me.
“Quit playing with your soup, Thaddy, and answer me,” Seth demanded.
Ignoring his little brother’s request, Thaddeus stirred his soup one more time, but with much more vigor. All the letters scattered and swirled about in the tiny whirlpool. However, as before, the letters began to surface, one by one...h...e...l…
By now, Seth was intrigued by his brother’s fixation on the soup, and a look of terror he had never seen on his brother’s face before. He stood up and peered into the bowl. Those all too familiar icy shivers ran down the smaller boy’s spine as he watched the letters continue to line up. He read the words aloud, “Help me.”
Seth then brought both hands to the sides of his head and raked his fingers through his hair. With disgust in his voice, he snapped quietly at his older brother, “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could ya Thaddy? Could ya? No....Not you, ya stupid ass. You had to go an’...let her out!”
Seth slowly sunk back into his chair, frowning. “In case you don’t live to see your birthday tomorrow, I better tell ya now....Happy Birthday, ya Moron.”
Now, the thin and scraggly duo was beyond hunger. They were dangerously desperate for food. The Tremont farm was the first opportunity these two low life rebel rats had in five days to pilfer a meal.
“My belly feels like it is on fire,” Todd bitched as they stayed out of sight in the tree line, watching the Tremont men folk put the plow horses in the barn for the night. “An' my leg’s hurtin’ real bad, it needs some quick doctorin’.”
“I know exactly how your belly feels. Don’t you think I didn’t have any chow in the last four days, either?” his quickly agitated and miserable brother shot back. Roy was fed up with his older brother’s constant whining. “You complain worse than my old lady does, even when the bitch is on the rag. Just shut your God damned mouth already. We are going to have mess tonight. There’s only one man an’ two boys on this farm, an’ there’s two of us.”
Todd squinted in an attempt to see down to the farm better. “I ain’t seen no dogs.”
Then he sat alongside his brother and said, “You’re comin’ along tonight, an’ we’re gonna feast like kings. Hell, Roy, we might even have the missus for dessert.” He smiled. “Then we’ll tend to your leg.”
“Yeah! I can taste that already,” Todd said, smacking his lips and rubbing his crotch, knowing damn well what his little brother was planning.
“General Robert E. Lee drafted us to kill Yankees...an’ that’s exactly what we are gonna do,” Roy said with his semi-toothless smile. All eight of his front teeth were missing. A crazed look settled in his eyes as he stroked his beard and gazed into the future. His smile widened, exposing his decaying, blackened side teeth. “Yessiree. We’re gonna raise that Confederate Flag high in the sky” The demented idiot then saluted an imaginary Robert E. Lee, “We will do Old Dixie proud tonight, sir.”
Then he giggled with excitement as the three Tremonts entered the farmhouse for the evening. “We’re gonna kill us some God damned Yankees tonight, Private Gatlin! We’re gonna kill them fuckers till they’re dead!”