House on Hollow Hill | House of Secrets #2 | Ebook
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Pre-Order, Releasing May 29
It’s Albert Sinclair’s 80th birthday, and his family has gathered to celebrate at his home on Hollow Hill. But as the last guest arrives, a flash flood warning cuts across the evening news, urging residents to stay inside and off the roads.
With the storm closing in, dinner begins. The wine flows, and conversation drifts from one topic to the next. And then, without warning, Albert chokes. One moment he’s laughing. The next, he’s on the floor.
His son rushes to his side as the family looks on in horror. But within minutes it’s over, and Albert is dead.
Or so they think.
Something isn’t right. And whatever is happening inside that house is only just beginning.
From New York Times and 16-time USA Today bestselling author Cheryl Bradshaw comes a chilling new novella series for fans of Stephen King, Joe Hill, and Shirley Jackson.
SNEAK PEEK OF CHAPTER ONE:
My name is Albert Sinclair, and this is my story.
I turned eighty years old today, and I’ll admit right from the start that my original plan was to do something simple, to enjoy a quiet, respectable birthday, the kind a man earns after eight decades of doing his best and surviving the rest.
I keep a bottle of bourbon on the top shelf of the cabinet in my study, one I have been saving for years, waiting for the right moment to open it. I had imagined pouring a glass or two today, settling into my chair, and letting the day pass without much interruption. But the day didn’t work out that way, and we’ll get to that in a moment.
I’ve lived a full life, a good life I’d say, for the most part. There have been setbacks along the way, of course, and some choices I wish I could take back in the hope they might have gone in a different direction. But all in all, I suppose I have no real complaints.
Back in the eighties, I was married to my high school sweetheart, Susan. I thought we would be together until the day I died, and for a long time, I never considered the possibility of any other outcome. We had three children, a modest home, and a decent life.
Or so I thought.
The problem was I worked too much and paid Susan too little attention. I told myself it was okay because I was doing it for our family. I worked long hours and late nights, always chasing the next sale. It was my belief that providing for my family made up for everything else. I had no idea what it was like for her, or how quiet the house felt at night when she sat alone in the living room after the kids went to bed.
One night, I arrived home to find her suitcases packed. When I asked her what was going on, she told me her parents had picked up the children, giving us time to have an important discussion. I didn’t understand it, not at first. But I can tell you one thing. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me or the tears in her eyes when she said she was tired of raising the children on her own and of feeling like she was the only one trying to keep our marriage alive.
Then she left.
By the time I realized what I had done, she’d already made up her mind. She moved back into her parents’ house and closed the door on the life we had built together. For a while, I tried to fix it, showing up with flowers, promises, and apologies.
It didn’t matter.
I’ve always said there’s a moment in a man’s life when he understands he’s crossed a line he can’t step back over.
That one was mine.
The years that followed weren’t easy. I spent a lot of time thinking about the kind of man I had been and the one I wanted to become. I tried to be better, even if there was no one there to see it. For a long time, I was alone. Then, in the nineties, I met Wanda.
Wanda was different from Susan in ways I didn’t recognize, and in ways I came to appreciate over time. Where Susan had been quiet and patient, Wanda was direct. She said what she meant and expected me to do the same. When she got upset, she didn’t let things sit and fester. If something was wrong, she told me.
We’ve been together ever since.
During my working years, I was an insurance salesman. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills and gave me structure. I suppose there’s something to be said for that, even if it wasn’t the dream I once imagined.
Because I did have a dream once. I wanted to be a screenwriter, and I spent a fair amount of time daydreaming about writing stories that meant something. When I was younger, I talked about it all the time, to anyone who would listen. I had plots in my head and characters so fleshed out they almost seemed real.
The trouble was, I never wrote any of my ideas down. I told myself I would get to it when the timing felt right, and it never did.
Funny how we always think there’s more time, putting off until tomorrow what should be done today.
But enough about that.
I’d rather talk about something more positive and upbeat, like my children. Two boys and a girl, who all turned out well. I’d like to think I had a hand in that somewhere along the line, but most of the credit belongs to Susan. She was the one who was there, day in and day out. I showed up when I could, trying to be the kind of father they deserved. I gave them my best, always hoping my best was good enough.
I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself, what it is I want to say, and the story I’m about to tell. There are some who would say I’m dead, you see. I don’t believe it, of course. But I ought to mention it now, so you’re not surprised when it comes up later.
To understand how we got to that point, we’ll need to start at the beginning, to where it all began, and how it all went wrong.
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