Chasing Amanda Read Online Free Page A

stick, and together they walked back toward the park, passing Molly on their way.
    “Are you going back already?” Molly asked Hannah.
    “Some things are better left untouched,” Hannah said.
    Confused by Hannah’s comment, Molly turned back toward the forest, and readied herself for the pressure that was sure to come. She moved forward with determination. The pressure waned. She was left feeling little more than uncomfortable and bewildered. She eased deeper into the forest, over broken twigs and branches, pushing through thick, prickly bushes. She caught her foot and tripped, catching herself on a small tree. A pain shot through her palm. Shit! Sucking in air between her clenched teeth she inspected the wound. The gash was deep. Blood dripped down her wrist. The cut formed the letter T.
     
     
    Pastor Lett plodded up the gated-off, overgrown driveway towards the old Perkinson House, mumbling under her breath, “You better be there. Please, Lord, no trouble this time.” It was just after dusk, the sky gray with few clouds, the brisk air stung her cheeks. The center of the drive, a long mound of earth between two ruts from tires gone by, seemed to go on forever. The grass on either side was knee high. Pastor Lett walked with her head down but keenly aware of her surroundings, making certain she was alone. Her dark hair poked out under a knit cap, the ends making a C that turned out just below her shoulders. Her left hand, shoved deep in her coat pocket, held an open bag of sunflower seeds like a security blanket. She thought about the search that was likely still taking place and ignored the shame that flushed her cheeks. She couldn’t quite calm the guilt that wrapped around her as she thought of Molly. She’d heard her calling her name, even seen her running in her direction, but worried that if she’d stopped to chat—with Molly it was always more than a brief chat—she’d run out of time. I do what I can, she rationalized.
    The Perkinson House had been strategically built atop a wooded knoll and expertly camouflaged behind enormous oak and elm trees. Only one turret was visible from the main road, and to see it one would need to be in just the right location when the trees were bare . The private yard sloped gently toward what used to be Ten Mile Creek, until it was dammed and the man-made reservoir had swallowed the valley and the few houses within it. Many residents didn’t even know the home existed, much less that the Perkinson House had been entrusted to Pastor Lett some twenty-seven years ago by Chet Perkinson, the sole living family member, who some say was lucky to have escaped the home’s deadly curse.
    Pastor Lett slipped into the thick woods as the driveway curved toward the train tracks and became visible, only momentarily, from the road. Fatigue and regret filled her body, as it always did on her nightly journey.
    She approached the Victorian house cautiously, concerned about the possibility of vagrants and curious teens. She stood at the edge of the woods until she was sure she was still alone. She stepped quietly out of the woods and onto the leaf-covered grass, taking note of the hanging shutters, loose boards on the wood siding, and the broken window upstairs on the left which winked mysteriously in the sunlight.
    She started toward the ivy-covered stone walkway, sighing deeply at the thought of what lay ahead. The two entrance stairs cried out for repair with cracks in the second riser and a non-existent handrail save for the posts. Dwarfed by the looming trees, she turned, heading down the path that led around the side of the house, and moved swiftly to the rear cellar entrance. The smell of wet leaves hung heavily in the air. She quickly brushed the leaves off of the old wooden doors. The sound of twigs snapping caught her attention. She cocked her head to the side and listened intently. Squirrels.
    She knelt close to the familiar wooden doors, her knees sunk into the cold, moist ground.