house and not allowed to leave. She felt a chill and wondered if she should go with her father to the store after all.
No, don’t back down. You can do this.
After changing into jeans and a long-sleeve tee, she gathered her courage and wandered into her grandmother’s bedroom.
She stood in the middle of the room waiting for it, but nothing supernatural materialized. No ghostly voices. No blue apparitions.
Taking a deep breath, she knelt before the chest at the foot of the bed to explore more of its contents, to see what other clues it revealed about her father’s secret past. But it wouldn’t open. The wooden lid was latched tight.
“Dang it.” She looked at the lock and wondered if, like last time, it would mysteriously unlock itself.
After a minute passed, however, she realized that little miracle wasn’t going to happen again. She had to find the key.
She stood and turned toward the antique bureau. She glanced at the cracked mirror, felt a superstitious chill slide down her spine and reached for the dusty, blue-vinyl jewelry box the bureau.
Her hand froze when she heard an insistent knocking at the front door.
A sharp spike of icy fear plunged into Amy’s heart.
“He’s coming for you.”
The Nightmare Man, in the flesh, come to collect.
Amy could see his cruel, tobacco-laced grin clearly in her mind.
Her stomach knotted up. She stiffened in terror. Her heart rate quickened. Should she call the cops?
The knock came again, this time with more urgency.
With her muscles wound tight, she slunk slowly into her room, and separated two yellowed slats in the window blinds. Warily, she peered outside.
Standing on the front porch with a manila envelope clutched in five wrinkled fingers, was the frail, yet commanding, Richard Barrett. He raised his knobby fist and knocked at the door a third time.
The tension in Amy’s shoulders melted away. She felt no more terror, only a slight twinge of pain.
Before the white-haired man turned his blue-eyed, wrinkle-creased visage her way, she stepped back from the window with a tight frown, recalling all Richard Barrett did to her, and to her father— making him into the Nightmare Man, planting that fear into her mind.
The twinge of pain sharpened.
She wondered what was in the envelope he held. What could have brought him all the way to Pine Run today?
I don’t care.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Amy reached for the framed photograph on her nightstand. It was a picture her father took of her and her mother on the beach at a family outing to Gulf Shores. Unfortunately, it had been the last of such outings before her father committed a grave breach of trust and was kicked out of the house.
A few months later, her mother was murdered.
What happened to us? Amy fought back an onslaught of tears.
She touched the locket dangling close to her heart.
She heard the sound of an engine. She assumed Richard Barret had given up and was now backing his fancy black Cadillac out of the driveway. Amy was glad.
Why couldn’t her father just couldn’t shake the demons eating at his soul?
“You can’t change a man who doesn’t want to get better.”
Those were her mother’s words to her the day her father was escorted by police from their old house in Mobile.
Amy had watched from the foyer, with her arm in a sling, as he loaded his suitcases into his truck and drove off without apologizing for busting her lip after backhanding her when she tried to keep him from beating her mother. She had watched him leave, the tires kicking up dirt, without apologizing for throwing her into a wall. For dislocating her shoulder, and not explaining why he was the way he was, why he refused to get better, to change.
Amy clutched the photograph from a lifelong dead and buried to her chest and curled into a fetal position on the bed.
Will he ever truly change?
She knew the answer was no.
She also knew that, despite her resolve to get behind the truth of her mother’s death, she was
No, don’t back down. You can do this.
After changing into jeans and a long-sleeve tee, she gathered her courage and wandered into her grandmother’s bedroom.
She stood in the middle of the room waiting for it, but nothing supernatural materialized. No ghostly voices. No blue apparitions.
Taking a deep breath, she knelt before the chest at the foot of the bed to explore more of its contents, to see what other clues it revealed about her father’s secret past. But it wouldn’t open. The wooden lid was latched tight.
“Dang it.” She looked at the lock and wondered if, like last time, it would mysteriously unlock itself.
After a minute passed, however, she realized that little miracle wasn’t going to happen again. She had to find the key.
She stood and turned toward the antique bureau. She glanced at the cracked mirror, felt a superstitious chill slide down her spine and reached for the dusty, blue-vinyl jewelry box the bureau.
Her hand froze when she heard an insistent knocking at the front door.
A sharp spike of icy fear plunged into Amy’s heart.
“He’s coming for you.”
The Nightmare Man, in the flesh, come to collect.
Amy could see his cruel, tobacco-laced grin clearly in her mind.
Her stomach knotted up. She stiffened in terror. Her heart rate quickened. Should she call the cops?
The knock came again, this time with more urgency.
With her muscles wound tight, she slunk slowly into her room, and separated two yellowed slats in the window blinds. Warily, she peered outside.
Standing on the front porch with a manila envelope clutched in five wrinkled fingers, was the frail, yet commanding, Richard Barrett. He raised his knobby fist and knocked at the door a third time.
The tension in Amy’s shoulders melted away. She felt no more terror, only a slight twinge of pain.
Before the white-haired man turned his blue-eyed, wrinkle-creased visage her way, she stepped back from the window with a tight frown, recalling all Richard Barrett did to her, and to her father— making him into the Nightmare Man, planting that fear into her mind.
The twinge of pain sharpened.
She wondered what was in the envelope he held. What could have brought him all the way to Pine Run today?
I don’t care.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Amy reached for the framed photograph on her nightstand. It was a picture her father took of her and her mother on the beach at a family outing to Gulf Shores. Unfortunately, it had been the last of such outings before her father committed a grave breach of trust and was kicked out of the house.
A few months later, her mother was murdered.
What happened to us? Amy fought back an onslaught of tears.
She touched the locket dangling close to her heart.
She heard the sound of an engine. She assumed Richard Barret had given up and was now backing his fancy black Cadillac out of the driveway. Amy was glad.
Why couldn’t her father just couldn’t shake the demons eating at his soul?
“You can’t change a man who doesn’t want to get better.”
Those were her mother’s words to her the day her father was escorted by police from their old house in Mobile.
Amy had watched from the foyer, with her arm in a sling, as he loaded his suitcases into his truck and drove off without apologizing for busting her lip after backhanding her when she tried to keep him from beating her mother. She had watched him leave, the tires kicking up dirt, without apologizing for throwing her into a wall. For dislocating her shoulder, and not explaining why he was the way he was, why he refused to get better, to change.
Amy clutched the photograph from a lifelong dead and buried to her chest and curled into a fetal position on the bed.
Will he ever truly change?
She knew the answer was no.
She also knew that, despite her resolve to get behind the truth of her mother’s death, she was
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