|
SEQUEL TO CAPPAWHITE. (released--July 07)
Announced, book of the year 08, AllbookReviews, Panama City and Canada
Thirty five long years have passed since the harrowing events at the village of Cappawhite.
Long enough for the villagers to purge those events from their minds and get on with their lives.
Two men, however, would never forget the carnage and the people who died on that rainy night. These men would carry the unspeakable horrors of the past to their graves.
The people of Cappawhite were about to be reminded though.
Something had returned to Cappawhite, something evil.
Buy your copy!
Amazon
Amazon.co.uk
Froogle
Barnes & Noble.com
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 1 LOS ANGELES 2003 There had been no mourners at the open grave as they slowly lowered the casket down into the cold earth. Just professional men, paid to do a job. The priest had said a quick prayer and then it was over. The darkening clouds overhead and the almost gale force wind, made the undertakers glad it was a quick and short service. Nelson, the head grave digger, clumsily pulled out the little hip flask from his back pocket and took a sly swig. Then he awkwardly pushed the tarpaulin over the narrow opening and disrespectfully kicked the lone wreath out onto the edge of the pathway. The drink he had consumed the previous night had not agreed with him, and the piercing headache he had experienced so many times before, pulsated in every crevice of the angry mans skull. "Damn," he muttered, as he checked his watch and tapped at it roughly with his bloated fingers. This would be a long day, he knew. Then he yawned loudly and rubbed at his greasy forehead with a soiled hankerchief, before making his way back to the office. He would finish with the grave later. The old woman had left all her worldly goods to the little mission store on the corner, and a surprisingly sizable bank account had been left to the church. The only luxury she afforded herself was to pay for a top of the range solid oak coffin, with the gold plated handles and nameplate. The wreath had also been paid for by the old woman, long before she died. "To keep things respectable," she had said. And the little poem on the white card had been written by her in her own words. OH TAKE ME LORD TO THOU WONDROUS BOSOM WHERE UNTOLD KNOWLEDGE DOES THERE ABOUND FEED ME WITH DIVINE SALVATION TAKE MY HAND AND KEEP ME SOUND Sarah Tweedy As the last vehicle drove out through the gates of the cemetary on that cold wet windy day, a lone figure stared out across the headstones. No one could see it, its face hidden deep within its hood. But it was there, blackened in the shadows. Even the birds, their primitive instincts alerted, stayed clear, refusing to fly within fifty feet of this ever frightening presence. It was still watching when the dark came to claim the last beads of light, as the day slowly surrendered to night. Its mouth opened slightly, twisted and stretched. Then it hissed loudly. It was ready! But it felt a fear. A fear so great that it almost turned away. This was not the place where it should be, it knew. Something dangerous was all around, and only some inner madness was keeping it there.
|
Bookmarks
