Download Be Buried in the Rain by Barbara Michaels PDF

By Barbara Michaels

There are poor secrets and techniques from generations earlier buried at Maidenwood. scientific scholar Julie Newcomb has back to her family's decaying plantation—the website of such a lot of painful early life memories—to are inclined to her tyrannical grandmother, felled through a stroke. the hearth of malevolence nonetheless burns within the merciless, despotic matriarch's eyes—yet, for Julie, a faint spark of redemption and moment probabilities sparkles during this hated, haunted position. yet her hope—and her life—are heavily threatened by way of a nightmare reborn . . . and via the bleak discovery at the lonely street to Maidenwood of the earth-browned skeletons of a mom and baby.

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Sample text

I put the groceries on the table and tiptoed to the door. Shirley was there. Or someone was there…I could see a crouched darkness beyond the porch steps; it was still, but not silent. She was talking, apparently to herself, in a low crooning voice. I could not make out the words. I crossed the porch and opened the screen door. Shirley got to her feet. I heard the rustle of leaves as something fled into the bushes. Shirley’s body had concealed the object on the path—a bowl, filled with an all-too-familiar mess, the remains of last night’s casserole.

To the west the piled cumulus clouds had changed from white to dirty gray. We were going to have a thunderstorm—probably one of the humdingers common to the area. The basement would flood, be buried in the rain / 37 the power would go out. A horrific picture flashed into my mind, a preview of the evening ahead: reading Dickens by candlelight, with the sweat running down the back of my neck and Martha’s single eye fixed on me in silent mockery. It was all I could do not to wrench open the car door and jump in.

He had shifted gears and taken his foot off the brake before I woke up. I made a desperate grab at the car door and yelled, “Wait. Wait a minute. Can you give me a ride to town? I need to get a few groceries. ” His scowl deepened. “It ain’t that. ” “Well, then—” “I don’t have the time. Services tonight. ” “I’ll hitch a ride. ” He shook his head. Mrs. Danner squeaked, “There’s Will Smith, Mr. Danner. He obliges for some of the ladies—” “Be quiet, woman. Will’s a drunk and a fornicator. ” I had my head in the window, intent on winning the absurd argument.

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