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eBook Category: Horror
eBook Description: Sometimes you just have to listen--whether you want to or not.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Apprentice Fantastic, 2002
Fictionwise Release Date: April 2007

4 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [38 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [40 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [24 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [191 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [26 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [83 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [95 KB] , hiebook (KML) [84 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [53 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [21 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [27 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [55 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [42 KB]
Words: 7996
Reading time: 22-31 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

The roads were narrower than he remembered; twistier--if that was a word--and rougher. The ditches on either side of the road were overgrown with weeds, tall grass, and stalks of Queen Anne's lace. There weren't many homes out here, mostly farmhouses set back a ways from the road, fields of corn and soybeans forming green barriers between their planters and the world.

Thomas Wolfe said you can't go home again, but Michael knew that he'd gotten it wrong. You could go home, but who in their right mind would want to? But that was the problem: he wasn't in his right mind, and so he had no choice but to return to Ashton.

"I'm hearing a K word. It's a first name, I think. Kevin? Karl?"

"Could it be Clint?" The woman was soft-spoken, almost timid, but as soon as she said the name, he knew that was it.

"Yes, Clint. He's..." Michael frowned. He tried to ignore the audience, the lights, the cameras and the crew, and concentrate on the almost inaudible voice whispering in his head. "He's related to you, that's definite. Close. Not a brother or father. Husband. He's your husband."

Ashton was a dirt-poor town in the middle of southwestern Ohio farmland, equally close to the Indiana and Kentucky borders. Houses with yards that always needed mowing, rusted-out cars up on blocks in the driveway, too much junk on porches, flaking paint, and drooping gutters. The main employer in the town, a bicycle factory, had closed its doors when he was a boy, and those foolish enough to stay in Ashton worked what subsistence-level jobs they could find, dull-eyed fish swimming in a river of alcohol and unfulfilled dreams, marking time until they died.