Maybe noises in the night shouldn't be investigated.
Heart beating wildly, she sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, her hands at her throat. She stared into the darkness of her bedroom, faint light filtering through the curtains from the light over the neighbour's back door. All seemed normal.
A few deep breaths helped to restore her heart rate to something closer to normal. She plucked at the neckline of her nightie, then tossed the blankets back. Since she was so wide awake, she might as well go pee before she settled back to sleep. She sat up and groped with her toes for her slippers. Her fuzzy bathrobe hung on the back of the door. She put it on and tied the belt as she went down the hall to the bathroom.
After using the facilities, she stood before the sink and stared at her reflection while she washed her hands. "You know better than to eat cold pizza for a bed-time snack," she told her mirror self. She shook her head. "I'll learn--one of these days."
She turned off the tap and reached for the towel. A strange sound from downstairs arrested her hand in mid-reach. She listened, heard nothing more and went about drying her hands. The sound came again just as she flicked off the bathroom light. This time, it was followed by the clatter of something plastic falling in the kitchen. She frowned and went to the top of the stairs.
She stood there, one hand on the newel post. "This is where the heroine in a horror movie doesn't call the cops and gets herself killed by the psycho du jour." She put her foot on the top step. But if I call 9-1-1 and it's nothing, I'll look as stupid as I feel. Besides, it's probably just the cat. The fact that her cat was at the vet's overnight didn't register.
A faint light from the kitchen illuminated the dining table. It looked as if she had forgotten to turn off the little light in the stove hood. "Stupid," she muttered and walked confidently forward.
The stove was just to the right of the door, and sure enough the hood light was on. She stepped through, went to the stove and reached for the switch. The cellar door behind her creaked, as it always did when it opened.
"Is that you, Kitty?" She half-turned to look. Before she could scream, the man in the ski-mask was across the room. Strong hands closed around her throat, cutting off her air. She clawed at his hands, dug her nails into his flesh. The hands tightened. She flailed at him, reached for anything she might use as a weapon. Her breath whistled in her attempts to draw air into her lungs. Darkness closed in with blooms of light like fireworks in a night sky. Once more, she put her hands on his and fought for freedom. She could see him smiling behind the mask and knew she was going to die.
Heart beating wildly, she sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, her hands at her throat.
The second book of the trilogy, The Chronicles of Henry Roach-Dairier, this volume will be enjoyed by astute 10 or 11 year olds as well as adults. A reader does not have to read To Build a Tunnel First to understand this volume.
Retail Price; $15
An ex-soldier, now turned farmer, wakes one day to find mysterious marks on his hands and wrists. All seems well until black riders appear and kidnap his family. On his journey to recover his lost loved ones and to discover the meaning of the strange
