“Every town has its share of secrets. And when whispered by children in the dead of night, some secrets become stories. They percolate and brew and change. Sometimes, under special circumstances, the stories become legends, destined to survive even as the children who share them grow up and move on.”
I had my fiancé pick a page, and he thought page 125 was a good one. 🙂
Jake nodded and shone his phone’s torch at the file in his hand.
Cora Sanderford b.1977 – d.1990
Type: Low-level Poltergeist
‘Low-level doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Jake.
‘Read the rest, boy. You can’t judge the state of a corpse by the flowers on its grave.’
“Me too,” I laughed. “Which is saying something for someone who doesn’t really need to breathe.”
He stopped smiling and cocked his head a little to the side. I immediately regretted my words. Stupidly, I’d jerked us out of the moment and back to the topic at hand. I shook my head, furious with myself.
Might as well quit playing around and get it over with, I thought bitterly. I took a deep breath to steady myself and cut right to the chase.
“So, Joshua, here’s the part where you run screaming into the night, right?” I paused to stare around at the clearing, lit up by the overcast daytime sky.
“It’s a face. A small… very young.. very little-girlish face is reflected in the mirror. I bring a hand to my mouth to keep horrible four-letter words from spilling out. Unlike the soft smile on the statue of Inez Clarke, this face is dark. Frightening. Pitch-black eyes like the night are set against porcelain skin, and her lips are pale. She doesn’t look happy. She doesn’t look alive.”