Uncle Wendell loved to make up strange and frightening stories. So when he told my sister Betty and me about the scariest book ever written, we didn’t believe him.
We knew he was trying to scare us. We were onto him. We only pretended to shiver and shudder.
Of course, we should have believed him about the Scariest Book Ever.
Because that story about the book was true.
“She sings off-key until she’s gray all over, limbs as stiff as a marionette doll’s. Exhausted, she doesn’t push her sister-in-law away the next time help comes. All the while her feverish head never stops whispering, “I am the madame of the house, and it knows, it knows, my dear little rat.” Her fingers trace figure eights over the walls before being dragged away. “It knows.”
A chill runs through me. “Who’s them?”
The dead girl studies me. “She doesn’t leave the house,” Cam finally says, “but it doesn’t mean they don’t listen.” Her movements are erratic and fast, too quick for me to run before fingers slide over my temples and hold me in place. “I can only show you.” Her breath glides along my ear.