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Shrouded [Secure eReader]
eBook by Carol Anne Davis

eBook Category: Mystery/Crime/Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: Douglas likes women--quiet women; the kind he deals with at the mortuary where he works. Douglas meets Marjorie, unemployed, gaining weight and losing confidence. She talks and laughs a lot to cover up her shyness, but what Douglas really needs is a lover who'll stay still--perfectly still. Perhaps he can put Marjorie into a state of limbo and use her to feed his growing sexual hunger. Douglas studies his textbooks to find a way ...

eBook Publisher: Snowbooks/Snowbooks
Fictionwise Release Date: January 2007


1 Reader Ratings:
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The boy awoke?was wakened. Shadows slipped and slithered round the room. Down below, he heard the settee squeaking. Each creak broke the stillness?a rhythmic groan. His little church-shaped clock read ten thirty, which meant they hadn't gone to bed after all. Now he could watch Fear on Friday with them. The other kids at school got to see it every week. ?Tate?s not got a telly!? three of the tougher boys had started to chorus most days. But he did, he did. Only sometimes Paul said that a programme was bad for you, or dangerous. That you shouldn't watch TV when eating, or on Sundays at all. So he'd read instead, running his torch along the lines of print as he huddled beneath the covers. Sometimes he told one of the quieter boys about the adventure stories he'd read. Even then, when his classmates discussed Friday?s werewolves and vampires, he couldn't compete. Unless... Slowly, slowly he slid one foot out of bed, wincing at the coolness. Stretched it out, out, past his slippers to the floorboard nearest the chest of drawers. This was the friendly floorboard, the silent one, the one that would never tell. If Paul heard him in his room or on the stairs, he'd hit him and even kick him if his mum wasn't looking, then send him back to bed. Douglas breathed slowly, shallowly, hands searching the air in front of him like a sleep-walker. If he made it safely into the living room, there was a good chance mum would let him stay up. Shivering, unable to find his dressing gown in the dark, he tiptoed forward. Held his palm flat against the door, and edged it open by a quarter of an inch at a time. Almost, almost... As soon as the gap was wide enough, he turned sideways, slipped through it. The landing was in darkness?Paul said it was wasteful to keep on unnecessary lights. ?He gets scared. Don't you, love?? his mum had said when Paul first married her and introduced the No Lights Rule. She'd made the gesture that felt like she was polishing his hair. Paul?s small brown eyes had focused on Douglas, narrowed like those of next doors tabby. ?If he?s done nothing wrong, if his conscience is clear, then he should be able to sleep.? But he couldn't sleep?he couldn?t. He'd rather sit and watch girls screaming at vampires, than lie in his divan alone in the uncertain dark. Onto stair one now, clutching the banister, not breathing. Stairs two, three, four: the settee?s creaking growing louder step by step. Were they jumping up and down with excitement, like he did when it got to the scary 6 bits? Paul rarely cuddled his mum the way new husbands did all the time on TV. Maybe he was liking her more cause she'd had her hair curled pretty? Maybe he'd start to like Douglas, too. Taking two steps at a time now, soles light as whispers, he reached the living room door. ?Mum?? He was just about to say it. She'd turn and see how cold he was, how lonely, how small. And would snort ?Look at him!? and hold out her arms, and take him on her lap. Then Paul would say ?He?s eight years old, Alice! He?s much too big for that,? and she'd set him down again. ?Let him watch the film, Paul,? she'd plead, putting her head to one side and pursing her lips together, ?He?s not doing any harm.? And Paul would say ?He?s your son?, and turn away from them, thin shoulders hunching. His mum would ruffle Douglas?s hair and give her high pitched laugh and all would be well. Inhaling, Douglas peered round the door. Where were they? No...


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