Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Publisher: Amazon.com
Type: Fiction
Pages: 399
Copyright: April 9, 2017
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
Claire Sherril inherits a haunted Louisiana mansion, and becomes a murder suspect at her place of employment.
Believing her life will improve, divorcee, Atlanta psychologist, Claire Sherril, accepts her late stepmother's legacy, ownership of Chartres House, an 18th century sugar plantation mansion in Louisiana Bayou country. Intrigued by the lonely property and the history it represents, Claire arrives at the mansion with Samantha, her rag-doll cat.
Early on strange paranormal experiences occur. Ghostly presences make themselves known, each with an other worldly agenda.
If ghost wrangling weren't enough, two senseless murders occur at Haven Rest Hospital and Rest Home, Claire's employment. She is a suspect in both murders and strives to prove her innocence. The murders introduce her to local a deputy sheriff who sets her imagination aflame.
Excerpt
GHOSTS OF CHARTRES HOUSE
Chapter 1
The sign indicating the turn-off to Chartres House stood half-buried in reedy swamp grass. Its faded red arrow pointed right. I made the turn onto the ill kept drive lined with massive live-oaks. An oily black bayou snaked along beyond the row of oaks. Such a lonely spot. I hadn't seen another house for at least ten miles. My stomach, a mass of knots, tensed tighter as I moped the foggy windshield. Rain had threatened the last fifty miles.
The house stood ahead, a grayish white mansion in the late afternoon gloom. It badly needed new paint. The care taker had admitted cosmetic repairs were in order. I'd assumed a good cleaning, perhaps new carpet, not this bedraggled apparition. Clearly, I'd deceived myself, like gazing at those glossy vacation brochures proclaiming exotic getaways of mind-boggling beauty. I'd taken a few of those trips--dirty tan sand, cheap cookie-cutter rooms overlooking alleys. Food geared to make McDonalds cringe.
My cozy Atlanta apartment I'd left behind forever seemed more desirable than ever. Why had I burned my bridges? The larger question--why had my stepmother left her ancestral home to me, Claire Sherril, her late husband's only child? True, she had no children of her own, but I was, after all, her stepdaughter, and not a beloved one at that. In my heart of hearts I suspected Helen had never liked me. Resented me, in fact. Felt I was a threat to the man she loved. My father. Too there was something about Helen, herself . . . something about the toothy, bright smile . . . something different.
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