Sample Sunday: From Vengeful Spirits
From Chapter 6 of Vengeful Spirits (now discounted at Amazon and Smashwords):
"Thankyou," Phoebe said to the librarian. The floor cried out and the old man shifted in his chair asshe turned to the foyer and heavy set of stairs which led to the second floor.To her surprise, the wide staircase didn't make a sound as she climbed. Therail, darkly stained wood, was cold and smooth in her hand. She rounded thelanding, and saw the second floor was dark. It'sjust a library. Shelowered her head and forced legs up the final steps. A small, handwritten signread "please turn off lights as you leave" with a switch beneath it. Phoebehappily flicked the switch, and the room sparked to life. The floor planmimicked the level below, with racks of books visible inside a room labeled"Non-fiction" to her left and another room labeled "Reference" to the right.She moved toward the right, surprised at the eerie silence of the carpetedfloors. So silent she imagined even the books were listening for the slightestsound, waiting to fall from the shelves and crush her. Tallwindows decorated the walls of the reference room, and Phoebe quickly found theshelves of bound newspapers. They were large books, as wide and tall as thepaper and at least three or four inches thick. Five volumes all together, eachmarked with dates on the spine. "Okay,Phoebe, where to start," she whispered to herself. She pulled out the volumewith 1918-1935 on the spine, deciding to start with the train. If what her brothersaid was true, she'd need a paper from 1928. The heavy book echoed in the emptyroom as she dropped it on the table top. Inside, the pages were obviousreproductions made on glossy, heavyweight paper. Thefirst headline, Doughboys Stop Hun in Belleau Wood, showed pictures of fourlocal men in uniform along with a map of France. Phoebe's fingers slid over theslick pages, turning them gently, one at a time. Some jumped weeks, others onlydays. The paper must have been published on an irregular schedule. She passedArmistice Day, various business announcements in the early twenties, electionresults, and finally, on April 30, 1928, the headline she'd been looking for:TragedyStrikes on Rail: 78 Confirmed DeadThereproduction, like most of the other pages, was of poor quality. Many of thewords were nearly unreadable because of smudges or age. Phoebe was able todecode enough to learn the train wrecked just west of town while crossing asteel deck girder bridge over the Republic River. The engine had skipped thetracks traveling at approximately 35 miles per hour, and dragged all cars andpassengers over the edge. Subsequentpages showed grainy, black and white photos of the rescue efforts. The finaldeath toll for the tragedy stopped at eighty-one. Asigh escaped Phoebe's lips, long and raspy like a midnight breeze. She hadn'trealized she'd been holding her breath until so much of it came at once.Eighty-one people died in a train wreck outside a small town in Kansas. Twoparents die on an icy road in Illinois. Phoebe's blood became frozen mud. Sheclosed her eyes, and tried to remember her mother's face. Shecouldn't.Anoise sounded across the second floor—a thump, the sound of a book falling froma shelf onto the carpeted floor. Phoebe pressed her fingers against thetabletop until the blood drained away and they were as white and cold as newsnow. "Hello?"Thebuilding answered with a quiet, settling creak. Outside, the sun had begun toset, and the room, with its bright fluorescent lights, was now brighter thanthe sky. How long had she been in there?Shereturned the 1918-1935 book to the shelf, and drew out 1936-1948. Another heavyvolume, this one largely filled with the last years of the Great Depression andWorld War II. Nothing about a school fire. Itwas a picture in the next volume, 1949-1965, which caused the icy fingers ofterror to encircle Phoebe's heart—not the picture exactly, but the captionbeneath. The photo was of a young woman, Lucy Hardaway, fifteen. The captionread:TheStrangler Takes Another VictimPhoebecovered her mouth and stifled a gasp. She scanned the date under the newspaperflag: September 21, 1957. Another victim? Her fingers worked the pages inreverse order, checking each until 1955. She found nothing about a firstvictim. Maybe an accident. An omission. Maybe the police hadn't known or thepaper didn't report it—Anothersound from across the way. Phoebefelt for her bag under the table. She thought of calling EG, telling him tocome pick her up, now. She would run down the stairs, leaving the 1949-1965book open on the table, open to the picture of Lucy Hardaway, a pretty girl inblack and white with dark curls, glasses, and thick eyebrows. She could…No.Sheturned past Lucy's picture, hunting for another mention of the Strangler. Amorbid curiosity took over Phoebe's fingers. She flipped the next few pages,working against the fear which clutched her heart and threatened to crush herlungs. Cars passed on the street below, making strange shapes on the walls withtheir headlights. She flinched at every, tiny sound.January4, 1958. Another girl, Joan Carpenter, dead of the Strangler, only now, thereporters had begun to call him—of course they assumed he was male—the SpringdaleStrangler. There was mention of another girl in the article, evidently thefirst victim, a young woman who lived in the rural area surrounding town.Evelyn Jones died six months before poor Lucy, but the police only made theconnection after the second death.Withfevered intensity, Phoebe continued her hunt. The police searched for theStrangler. He'd gone silent until 1961. The girl's name was Emma Lee. She haddark hair, limp and long, her face was long, too. High cheekbones. Phoebecouldn't help but think she'd seen the face before, somewhere. She went missingin June of '61, and the police feared the worst. The FBI became involved.Sheflipped pages, skipping anything which didn't mention the Strangler.July1, 1961, the FBI and Spring County Sheriff's Department cornered a man namedNathaniel Slade in a small house on the heights overlooking the RepublicanRiver. After an eight hour standoff, the law enforcement moved in, shootingSlade dead. He was unarmed.Theynever found Emma's body.
Grab a copy for Kindle or other e-reading devices for only $0.99 and find out what happened to poor Emma.
"Thankyou," Phoebe said to the librarian. The floor cried out and the old man shifted in his chair asshe turned to the foyer and heavy set of stairs which led to the second floor.To her surprise, the wide staircase didn't make a sound as she climbed. Therail, darkly stained wood, was cold and smooth in her hand. She rounded thelanding, and saw the second floor was dark. It'sjust a library. Shelowered her head and forced legs up the final steps. A small, handwritten signread "please turn off lights as you leave" with a switch beneath it. Phoebehappily flicked the switch, and the room sparked to life. The floor planmimicked the level below, with racks of books visible inside a room labeled"Non-fiction" to her left and another room labeled "Reference" to the right.She moved toward the right, surprised at the eerie silence of the carpetedfloors. So silent she imagined even the books were listening for the slightestsound, waiting to fall from the shelves and crush her. Tallwindows decorated the walls of the reference room, and Phoebe quickly found theshelves of bound newspapers. They were large books, as wide and tall as thepaper and at least three or four inches thick. Five volumes all together, eachmarked with dates on the spine. "Okay,Phoebe, where to start," she whispered to herself. She pulled out the volumewith 1918-1935 on the spine, deciding to start with the train. If what her brothersaid was true, she'd need a paper from 1928. The heavy book echoed in the emptyroom as she dropped it on the table top. Inside, the pages were obviousreproductions made on glossy, heavyweight paper. Thefirst headline, Doughboys Stop Hun in Belleau Wood, showed pictures of fourlocal men in uniform along with a map of France. Phoebe's fingers slid over theslick pages, turning them gently, one at a time. Some jumped weeks, others onlydays. The paper must have been published on an irregular schedule. She passedArmistice Day, various business announcements in the early twenties, electionresults, and finally, on April 30, 1928, the headline she'd been looking for:TragedyStrikes on Rail: 78 Confirmed DeadThereproduction, like most of the other pages, was of poor quality. Many of thewords were nearly unreadable because of smudges or age. Phoebe was able todecode enough to learn the train wrecked just west of town while crossing asteel deck girder bridge over the Republic River. The engine had skipped thetracks traveling at approximately 35 miles per hour, and dragged all cars andpassengers over the edge. Subsequentpages showed grainy, black and white photos of the rescue efforts. The finaldeath toll for the tragedy stopped at eighty-one. Asigh escaped Phoebe's lips, long and raspy like a midnight breeze. She hadn'trealized she'd been holding her breath until so much of it came at once.Eighty-one people died in a train wreck outside a small town in Kansas. Twoparents die on an icy road in Illinois. Phoebe's blood became frozen mud. Sheclosed her eyes, and tried to remember her mother's face. Shecouldn't.Anoise sounded across the second floor—a thump, the sound of a book falling froma shelf onto the carpeted floor. Phoebe pressed her fingers against thetabletop until the blood drained away and they were as white and cold as newsnow. "Hello?"Thebuilding answered with a quiet, settling creak. Outside, the sun had begun toset, and the room, with its bright fluorescent lights, was now brighter thanthe sky. How long had she been in there?Shereturned the 1918-1935 book to the shelf, and drew out 1936-1948. Another heavyvolume, this one largely filled with the last years of the Great Depression andWorld War II. Nothing about a school fire. Itwas a picture in the next volume, 1949-1965, which caused the icy fingers ofterror to encircle Phoebe's heart—not the picture exactly, but the captionbeneath. The photo was of a young woman, Lucy Hardaway, fifteen. The captionread:TheStrangler Takes Another VictimPhoebecovered her mouth and stifled a gasp. She scanned the date under the newspaperflag: September 21, 1957. Another victim? Her fingers worked the pages inreverse order, checking each until 1955. She found nothing about a firstvictim. Maybe an accident. An omission. Maybe the police hadn't known or thepaper didn't report it—Anothersound from across the way. Phoebefelt for her bag under the table. She thought of calling EG, telling him tocome pick her up, now. She would run down the stairs, leaving the 1949-1965book open on the table, open to the picture of Lucy Hardaway, a pretty girl inblack and white with dark curls, glasses, and thick eyebrows. She could…No.Sheturned past Lucy's picture, hunting for another mention of the Strangler. Amorbid curiosity took over Phoebe's fingers. She flipped the next few pages,working against the fear which clutched her heart and threatened to crush herlungs. Cars passed on the street below, making strange shapes on the walls withtheir headlights. She flinched at every, tiny sound.January4, 1958. Another girl, Joan Carpenter, dead of the Strangler, only now, thereporters had begun to call him—of course they assumed he was male—the SpringdaleStrangler. There was mention of another girl in the article, evidently thefirst victim, a young woman who lived in the rural area surrounding town.Evelyn Jones died six months before poor Lucy, but the police only made theconnection after the second death.Withfevered intensity, Phoebe continued her hunt. The police searched for theStrangler. He'd gone silent until 1961. The girl's name was Emma Lee. She haddark hair, limp and long, her face was long, too. High cheekbones. Phoebecouldn't help but think she'd seen the face before, somewhere. She went missingin June of '61, and the police feared the worst. The FBI became involved.Sheflipped pages, skipping anything which didn't mention the Strangler.July1, 1961, the FBI and Spring County Sheriff's Department cornered a man namedNathaniel Slade in a small house on the heights overlooking the RepublicanRiver. After an eight hour standoff, the law enforcement moved in, shootingSlade dead. He was unarmed.Theynever found Emma's body.
Grab a copy for Kindle or other e-reading devices for only $0.99 and find out what happened to poor Emma.
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