When unexplained things start happening under the mansion’s roof, suspicions arise as to just who—or what—she is. In the chaos that ensues, the family is forced to make a decision: trust the stranger or band together as a family against her—and their grandmother who’s protecting her.
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‘She tried to distract herself by thinking of other things, like the invigorating chill in the atmosphere or the soft crushing of the mushy grass under the thin, flappy shoes, but nothing worked. The feelings and emotions around her were too big to be crowded out by minor sensory input.Amira was aware of darkness rolling off Dr. Bordell like a smothering fog. She could no longer hear the other two men out here with them. They had either straggled far behind or were being strangely silent. Most likely it was just her and the doctor now traipsing out into nowhere. Would she ever come back?
They only walked a short while longer when the doctor stopped Amira in her tracks. He ripped off her head covering in one violent motion that took several long brown hairs with it. He watched her with a sickening grin as she tried to get her bearings.
Amira’s gaze went straight to the heavens, an immediate escape. It was a cloudy night and she couldn’t locate the moon in the sky, only a glowing veil of clouds in its place and a sugar-sprinkling of stars all around. The tree branches that clawed at the atmosphere were unfamiliar in shape, and she couldn’t find a recognizable landmark anywhere in the inky darkness. . . . The doctor gripped the nape of Amira’s neck and flung her to the ground like an unwanted stray kitten. She tumbled several times from the unnecessary force, kicking up loose soil before coming to rest atop a bare, earthen mound.
“She’s in the ground, you stupid moron,” Dr. Bordell replied and laughed, thoroughly enjoying his moment of revelation, “which is exactly where I’m going to put your mother if you don’t do everything I tell you to from here on out.”
Amira clutched fistfuls of dirt in her palms and let the powder cascade through her open fingers. “No,” she whispered as the soil rained against her bare legs.’
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About the Author
Misty Mount has written since age five and was first published at fourteen. By day she’s a caregiver, wife, and mother to a young son but during the quiet hours of night she becomes a novelist.
“I read because my grandmother showed me how to immerse myself in books for recreation, relaxation or even as a coping skill.
I write because my head is filled with daydreams and I like to choose the endings.”
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