Tymber Dalton Read Online Free Page A
and her children.
So why not make it a graveyard?
The mine bought a coffin and stone marker for George because he was a white member of the community, and a coffin and wooden marker for Caleb. Mallory fought for a stone marker but was warned not to push his luck. It became known as the Oriole cemetery. When the mine shut down decades later, it fell out of memory.
But the land remembered.
Chapter Four:
1942
This wasn’t what he’d planned!
Peter huddled in the upstairs closet, the pistol clutched tightly in his hand. Outside, he heard the stairs creaking.
This wasn’t supposed to happen . The books didn’t say anything about this!
He closed his eyes tightly and prayed for the noise to go away.
Praying. Ironic, considering what he’d tried to do.
He hoped the candles he’d left burning around the pentacle downstairs didn’t fall over and catch the house on fire.
Still three hours until daylight.
Peter wished he’d never let himself get talked into this ridiculous plan. Where was everyone else? Scared off. He was the only one who stayed behind and tried to complete the ritual.
And they left him hung out to dry.
The footsteps stopped outside the closet door while Peter silently sent up every prayer he could think of. His heart echoed through his empty soul, each beat thundering in his brain.
Was he alone again? He couldn’t tell, not with the blood pounding in his ears.
When he dared open his eyes four hours later, daylight peeked beneath the door. He contorted himself around enough he could press a cheek to the floor and peek through the gap.
No feet—ghostly or otherwise—lay in wait on the other side.
With a huge sigh of relief he opened the door, walked to the landing, and looked over the banister. Downstairs the candles had melted to puddles of wax and gone out. A slight smell of smoke hung in the air, like a campfire, probably hunters somewhere in the woods nearby.
He’d fetched his satchel from the bedroom. He would not spend another night alone in this house. He didn’t care how much grant money he gave up by giving in, it wasn’t worth it.
Maybe he should drop all this nonsense. It might be best to go to church and forget about demons, ghosts, and spirits altogether. He hadn’t believed in that nonsense before. Ironically, now he did.
Halfway down the stairs the pain hit, a twisting, searing stabbing in his side, and an enraged phantom voice screamed in his head. He dropped his bag, and it tumbled down the risers, spilling the contents. With every step it got worse, finally driving him back up to the second-floor landing.
He waited a few minutes and tried again with the same result.
No escape that way. He could jump out a window if he had to, but he was not trying those stairs again.
He looked around and found a coil of rope in the hall closet. That would work, he could lower himself down.
He secured it to the banister and made a loop in the other end. He threw one leg, then the other over the railing. He started to place the loop over his head in preparation of putting his arms through it when his foot slipped.
The lasso tightened around his neck, snapping it when he hit the end of the slack. He swung there, gently turning, until one of his cowardly cohorts returned three days later.
The coroner ruled it a suicide and closed the case. Peter Michaels had no family. The county buried him in the nearby Oriole cemetery in an unmarked grave near George Simpson’s tombstone.
Still, the land remembered.
Chapter Five:
1965
Shelly lay awake in bed, Jim softly snoring next to her. First-night jitters, she supposed. Jim had stayed in the house before and could easily sleep. Her insomnia couldn’t be from the rumors she’d heard from her sister, Jill.
Could it?
The house needed a lot of work, but they’d been lucky to get it so cheap. Then her sister opened her big mouth.
It seemed the house had a checkered past and frequently changed hands. Something about the original
So why not make it a graveyard?
The mine bought a coffin and stone marker for George because he was a white member of the community, and a coffin and wooden marker for Caleb. Mallory fought for a stone marker but was warned not to push his luck. It became known as the Oriole cemetery. When the mine shut down decades later, it fell out of memory.
But the land remembered.
Chapter Four:
1942
This wasn’t what he’d planned!
Peter huddled in the upstairs closet, the pistol clutched tightly in his hand. Outside, he heard the stairs creaking.
This wasn’t supposed to happen . The books didn’t say anything about this!
He closed his eyes tightly and prayed for the noise to go away.
Praying. Ironic, considering what he’d tried to do.
He hoped the candles he’d left burning around the pentacle downstairs didn’t fall over and catch the house on fire.
Still three hours until daylight.
Peter wished he’d never let himself get talked into this ridiculous plan. Where was everyone else? Scared off. He was the only one who stayed behind and tried to complete the ritual.
And they left him hung out to dry.
The footsteps stopped outside the closet door while Peter silently sent up every prayer he could think of. His heart echoed through his empty soul, each beat thundering in his brain.
Was he alone again? He couldn’t tell, not with the blood pounding in his ears.
When he dared open his eyes four hours later, daylight peeked beneath the door. He contorted himself around enough he could press a cheek to the floor and peek through the gap.
No feet—ghostly or otherwise—lay in wait on the other side.
With a huge sigh of relief he opened the door, walked to the landing, and looked over the banister. Downstairs the candles had melted to puddles of wax and gone out. A slight smell of smoke hung in the air, like a campfire, probably hunters somewhere in the woods nearby.
He’d fetched his satchel from the bedroom. He would not spend another night alone in this house. He didn’t care how much grant money he gave up by giving in, it wasn’t worth it.
Maybe he should drop all this nonsense. It might be best to go to church and forget about demons, ghosts, and spirits altogether. He hadn’t believed in that nonsense before. Ironically, now he did.
Halfway down the stairs the pain hit, a twisting, searing stabbing in his side, and an enraged phantom voice screamed in his head. He dropped his bag, and it tumbled down the risers, spilling the contents. With every step it got worse, finally driving him back up to the second-floor landing.
He waited a few minutes and tried again with the same result.
No escape that way. He could jump out a window if he had to, but he was not trying those stairs again.
He looked around and found a coil of rope in the hall closet. That would work, he could lower himself down.
He secured it to the banister and made a loop in the other end. He threw one leg, then the other over the railing. He started to place the loop over his head in preparation of putting his arms through it when his foot slipped.
The lasso tightened around his neck, snapping it when he hit the end of the slack. He swung there, gently turning, until one of his cowardly cohorts returned three days later.
The coroner ruled it a suicide and closed the case. Peter Michaels had no family. The county buried him in the nearby Oriole cemetery in an unmarked grave near George Simpson’s tombstone.
Still, the land remembered.
Chapter Five:
1965
Shelly lay awake in bed, Jim softly snoring next to her. First-night jitters, she supposed. Jim had stayed in the house before and could easily sleep. Her insomnia couldn’t be from the rumors she’d heard from her sister, Jill.
Could it?
The house needed a lot of work, but they’d been lucky to get it so cheap. Then her sister opened her big mouth.
It seemed the house had a checkered past and frequently changed hands. Something about the original
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