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Your book, your writing, it didn’t just inspire me. It . . . It saved me.”
“Sometimes stories have too much power. They change who people think you are.”
“Funny thing about rumors,” Sebastian said softly. “It doesn’t matter if they’re true or false, only that people believe them.”
“I don’t know what’s scarier,” Moore said, “the fact that you read that entire awful book or that you just said hooey with a straight face.”
Wainwright produced it with all of them included. He knew they would not be able to pass up the opportunity. He has us right where he wants us. But for what? What exactly does he have planned?
that on this land—the land to which the boy’s family has just moved, the land on which an unfathomable evil birthed a monster—terrible things await those who trespass.”
the golden days of Beaver Cleaver and Good Humor Bars and ‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself’ are over. They’ve been raped and tortured and left for dead. The only thing to fear these days is everything. Strangers. Neighbors. Your friends. Your family. Yourself.
That may be the most perverse thing of all: ignoring the horror, even as it happens around you.”
When something bad is swept under the rug, it doesn’t go away. It festers.
Or it used to. If you take the elevator to the third floor now, it’ll open to a brick wall, just like the staircase.”
He came to the house thinking they were entering a gateway to hell, and instead he found himself running a bed-and-breakfast.
But Kill Creek circled the house like a moat, and within this keep, this stronghold of silence, nothing stirred.
It was a ghost story. All of it. And he should have torn the bitch apart board by board when he had the chance.
You’re not here. You’re back there. You’re in that house because you NEVER LEFT!
Have they met before? Sam wondered. The way Adudel was looking at Wainwright gave the impression that they had. There was a familiarity there that gave Sam pause.
Noticed that Rachel now wears her hair like Rebecca’s, tied back. Asked about this. She says it is her way of honoring her sister.
Some sort of chair. Two circular posts flanked it. Wheels. Rebecca Finch’s wheelchair. Other than that, the room was empty.
