Author: ariellenichole

Erin A. Craig’s House of Salt and Sorrows opens in the midst of a dreary funeral on a windswept, colorless island in a fantastical, seafaring kingdom populated by The People of the Salt. Annaleigh Thaumas once lived happily with her eleven sisters and doting father in a grand manor high atop the stormy cliffs. Now, though, a deep sadness stalks the covered-mirror-lined halls, as four of the twelve princesses have died unnaturally gruesome and mysterious deaths.

Every evening, as the clock ticks on and the sun slips below the horizon, her remaining sisters desperately seek distraction from their grief by dancing themselves to exhaustion at mysterious midnight balls. As the inhabitants of Highmoor find themselves anxious to move on, Annaleigh grows increasingly desperate to preserve her sisters’ memories and delve into the truth of the mysterious curse that swirls around her family like a dark and threatening storm cloud.

Unpopular opinion alert.

Erin A. Craig’s Gothic fairytale a la Twelve Dancing Princesses starts out incredibly strong. The imagery is absorbing and visceral, pulling you into a glittering otherworld within a world. For the most part, this strength runs the length of the novel. About midway through, though, the novel turns into a hormonally-charged teenaged romance that shoehorns into a trippy kaleidoscopic chain of events that twist and morph until you’re unsure which way is up. When it’s all over, the matter of the novel’s “villain” is still just as predictable, only now you’re disoriented by the time you’ve reached the conclusion you can see coming from across the novel’s choppy Kaleic sea.

That’s not to say that this novel isn’t every bit as magical as the classic Grimm’s story. The glinting forest of moonlit silver, the swan boats, the midnight dancing…all bring to mind snuggly childhood memories of “Read it again, Mom.” However, the focus drifted too far from the promised moonlight waltzes for my taste.

Parts of the plot just didn’t add up. These oddly-placed space-fillers quickly became the central focus, while the lure that drew my initial interest––secret, Gothic dances in mysterious and faraway castles––waned. My personal rating for this book would’ve shot from three to five stars if I had been granted the chance to lose myself a little more often in the sparkling clandestine balls, and spent a little less time wading ankle-deep through the slate gray waters of teenaged angst.

And, oh, yeah––if it hadn’t gotten just plain weird.

PS: Page 303––the word you want is stocky. That is all.

My Summer 2020 TBR Pile continues to grow. Be on the lookout for future reviews:

(1) House of Salt and Sorrows by Erin A. Craig

(2) The Woman in the Mirror by Rebecca James

(3) The Amnesiac by Sam Taylor

(4) The Turn of the Key by Ruth Ware

(5) The Family Upstairs by Lisa Jewell

…to be continued!

The word of the day is whip-poor-will.

I just love words. The sounds of words, how they can be strung together to create meaning, or invoke a certain sound or feeling within the recipient or reader. There are just certain words that have musical, magical sounds, like whip-poor-will and will-o’-the wisp, which entice with their mystery. They bury within the reader a need to know more behind their creator.

The sound which is now reaching my ears as I sit on my balcony attempting to write, however, is not. It’s not musical, it’s not magical. Not in the slightest. The only mystery it invokes is whether or not it is emanating from a child throwing a tantrum, attempting to make something not even remotely musical on a plastic recorder, or the call of the whip-poor-will itself which if, though lovely,  could kindly can it until I am not writing the next bestseller, would be quite spectacular.

Anyhow, back to work.

This post brought to you by caffeine. Think responsibly.

I have set my personal goal to 50 books for the Goodreads 2018 Reading Challenge.

1 down, 49 to go. Woo-hoo! Going strong.

My dilemma is that I’ve searched the web high and low for a reading challenge that pertains to the Gothic, and let me tell ya, they are obscure to the point of being nearly non-existent. So here I am creating the 2018 Gothic Reading Challenge, because I know that I cannot be the only weirdo out there who enjoys deliciously Gothic fiction.

Behold.

1. A book that features a Byronic hero (think the brooding, anti-hero: aka Batman!)
2. A Victorian Gothic tale (can be either written or set in the Victorian era c. 1837-1901)
3. A book that features a gloomy castle (setting is an important character, too!)
4. A Southern Gothic tale (a fixation on the grotesque, y’all)
5. A book that features an isolated manor house
6. A book that features a decaying garden
7. A book set on the English moors
8. A classic Penny Dreadful (i.e. Frankenstein, Sweeney Todd)
9. A book that features a decrepit hall or the ruins of an Abbey
10. A book that features a terrible familial curse or prophecy
11. A book whose central theme features “madness” or “insanity”
12. A book featuring elements of the supernatural (ghosts, vampires, monsters, etc.)
13. A gothic romance (a book that may feature murder, madness, and a tragic love story, with or without all the supernatural fuss and muss)

Yes, I am ending this on the number 13….

Do-dee-do-do, do-dee-do-do

Enjoy.

Ah, Amy Cross. What wonderfully frightful tales you weave. The only thing scarier than the abundance of ghosts and ghouls and gore galore are the many, many grammatical errors raging through your stories. If you would only let me, I would edit the ever-loving h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of your books.  

Let’s talk, we’ll do lunch.

Amy Cross’ Stephen opens with an elderly woman reflecting on her past, and taking pen to paper to write down her account of the horrific events which ocurred during her time as a governess, events that still haunt her to this very day. She is Beryl, a woman who, at the beginning of one paragraph is in her “seventh decade”, and by the end of the same paragraph, came to the formidable Grangehurst forty years ago, when she was twenty.

I do so love Amy Cross’ stories, I get to brush up on my math skills.

Makes me go Cross-eyed.

Ha, ha.

Anyway.

The book opens with young, naive, straight-outta-the-convent (St. Winifred’s or St. Bernadette’s, depending on the paragraph) Beryl’s first job interview, which ultimately leads to her first (in case you don’t catch it the first thirty times it’s mentioned) experience with the real world. The young 20- or 30-year-old (I believe the author ultimately decided on 20) is whisked away to the English countryside to be employed as the new governess to the book’s namesake, baby Stephen.

What happened to the old governess, you ask? Well, don’t. Don’t ever, ever ask about the old governess, for something shockingly twisted and downright salacious happened, of course.

It is soon discovered that there is something very wrong with little Stephen. However, meek and mild Beryl repeatedly ignores her screaming instincts, the rapidly deteriorating minds of her employers, and the overall madness that consumes the estate and its surrounding grounds, to argue the natural against the unnatural and ultimately push on for the sake of helping those in need because she believes she can “fix” them. If that recipe for Stockholm syndrome doesn’t convince you to pick up the book and settle in for a snuggle, let’s focus on a character spotlight, shall we?

I just love to hate the protagonist, Beryl. Let’s pause for a moment. Beryl. It is one of those names that bring to mind footies, bon-bons, muumuus and Lawrence Welk on the boob tube, like Barney, Bertha or begonias (such fun words to say, aren’t they? I digress). The name, however, is so perfectly fitting for this plain Jane, mousy shadow of a character.

Because who doesn’t love one of those rare specimens, amiright?

Beryl is one of those clingy, grind-your-teeth annoying characters who follows the stronger, downright abusive characters for a word on what actions she should take next, like eating or breathing or when to stand up from the dinner table (no, srsly). She somehow, I don’t know, made me just want to squeeze her till she pops every time she opened her mouth to speak words at the wrong moment. She is so annoying that a group of nuns…nuns…reject her from taking her vows and send her out into the real world to gain experience. That’s right up there with being eighty years old and “not what we’re looking for” in a Wal-Mart greeter.

Beryl is so painfully annoying that whenever she’s saved from a situation that she only found herself in because she was too busy listening to the music of birds chirping in her head, she turns right around and tries to go back into said situation for the sake of “saving” and “fixing” those who try to do her harm. This bothersome trait runs rampant throughout the book, all the way up and through the story’s climax. With a dash of Stephen King, a sprinkle of the gothic, and a heaping dose of 50 Shades of WTF, this story is sure to keep your interest burning, and those pages turning. Pick up your copy today!

No really, though. I enjoyed it.

February 2008

If another word came out of his smart mouth I was going to take my math book and whack him. He could be so irritating, often times living up to his Irish name, Ryan, which meant “Little King”. Well, he had the “little” part down, anyway. He was as scrawny as he was childish. The “king” part was true only in his mind. He always had to be right, always had to show me up, always had to try his hardest to gain a rise outta me.

And it always worked.

If there was one thing that irritated me more than he did, it was me. He always brought out my inability to shut up whenever a challenge came along. He’d poke at all the right buttons, and instead of being impervious to his pettiness, it’d just sink right into me like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Minus the “woo-hooing” afterwards.

Ryan took the pencil out from between his teeth and tapped it against my scrap paper, sprinkling spit on my answers as if he were the Bullsh*t Fairy waving his bossy-pants wand as he proceeded to tell me why I was wrong. “Your answer came out right, but you were only half right. Because when I didn’t believe you, you didn’t argue with me to prove your point. You started to, but then you agreed with me.”

“I allowed you to think you were right, because I have a test early Monday morning and wanted to shut you up. What’s the fastest way to do that? Say, ‘Okay, Ryan’ and be done with it. That does not mean I agreed with you.” I pursed my lips and re-read the next word problem for the fourth time.

“But if you knew you were right, you would’ve tried harder to prove your point.” He sat back smugly, crossing his arms. The fact that he knew he was irritating me made his smile bigger and my patience smaller.

“…No…I just felt that there were more important problems to study and you would eventually discover I was right when you checked your work. Why should I waste my breath telling you you’re wrong, when it’s so much more fascinating to watch your face when you figure it out for yourself?” I rolled my scrap paper into a ball and threw it at his head. It bounced right off and onto the floor, like a basketball against an NBA backboard, which was just as hard as his head and equally inflated with hot air.

“I swear. You two are like an old married couple. Just date already.” We were so wrapped up in the argument that neither of us noticed David come into the room, with Matt and Dan following close behind.

“Date? Each other? Ha! There’s a thought,” I said, gesturing toward Ryan, and rolling my eyes. “I wanna smack the crap outta him now, when he’s merely an annoying acquaintance.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyways.” Ryan gave his best attempt at an angelic smile, batting his big ocean-blue eyes at me like a little Chihuahua.

“I have to love you. Otherwise I wouldn’t stand a chance of passing algebra.”

He feigned a hurt look and grabbed his non-existent man boobs. “Oh, that hurt…right here. Wait, wait…I might shed a tear, hold on…nope, must be gas”. He proceeded to show off his manly essence by letting one rip, earning a high-five along with a congratulatory “Niiice!” from David.

“Ugh.” Disgusted, I left them to their jokes that only the male species found humorous, and retreated to my apartment to wait for the more sensible members of our group to show: the females.

 We’re just a group of poor college kids with barely any direction, trying to survive in co-ed student housing: Ryan, Dan, Matt, and David share one shabby apartment, and Tasha, Christina, Tiffany and I share the slightly prettier apartment across the hall. After spending two years at a community college and living with our parents, we reveled in the freedom that came with transferring to a university, miles away in Orlando: staying up late, driving crappy cars that broke down every few miles, and eating gourmet meals a la Easy Mac. Then again, we wouldn’t be college kids if we weren’t starving.

Ah, the good life.

Our weeks were spent in serious study mode, unless you count the study groups we liked to throw, which typically turned into rowdy dance parties. But the weekends were a different story. We’ve spent many a Friday and Saturday night locked in our own version of “Battle of the Sexes.” The boys get all cocky and start feigning independence, claiming we girls need them more than they need us. We girls usually respond by banning together and going window shopping, all the while keeping up our Man-Hating Talk, until we get distracted by a sale. By Sunday, however, the boys can usually be found running back to us, begging for forgiveness. Whether it’s from actual guilt at their meanness towards us “fragile girls”…ha…or their lack of sleep from playing cards all night at Denny’s made them delusional, we never knew. Nor did we care. We just liked it.

It seemed that this weekend would be no different. Things were beginning friendly enough so far, but pretty soon the sexes would ban together and plan for battle. I could feel trouble brewing in the air, and it wasn’t because the boys happened to be gathered together in one room after taco night at Tijuana Flats. I walked into the living room and found Tiffany rummaging through the fridge while Christina was wrestling with our temperamental blender, pressing hard on the button as she simultaneously ducked down for cover.

“Chrissy, keep your hand on the – aah!” Tiff and I yelled, clasping our hands over our heads as the top spun off, yogurt plastering the ceiling and strawberry chunks zinging around the room in a low-calorie air raid.

“Oops…” squeaked a small voice from behind the counter.

“It’s…it’s all good,” I said. “We’ll just serve something less dangerous. Like pop-tarts.”

“I don’t think we should put her in charge of something that pops, sparks, or basically anything electrical.” Tiff said, rolling her eyes as Christina poked her in the arm.

I plopped down on the couch and Tiff joined me a few seconds later, leaving Christina to mop up the rest of the fruity massacre with a quilted wet wipe.

“How’s the studying going?” Tiff asked.

The look I gave her said enough.

“Well, you sure sounded like you enjoyed it. I could hear the yelling from our kitchen. I was about to get the fire hose. If it were me, I would’ve just hauled off and smacked him.”

“Don’t think the thought didn’t enter my mind. But every time I do, he blocks me with that bony arm of his and I have bruises on my hand for a week.”

“Tragic.”

“Tell me about it. And anyways, the rest of the boys are over there, and Tasha will be home soon, so we had to quit and get ready for our movie night. You get the rest of the snacks?”

“Sure did. Chips, strawberry cheesecake, and extra dip in case Dan still doesn’t understand the concept of ‘sharing.’”

“You’d think after the PowerPoint presentation and the two interventions, he’d get it by now.”

“You would think, but after last year’s fateful Super Bowl, we can’t be too careful. Anyway, the food’s all over there on the counter.”

I got up to help her pour out the dip just as Tasha burst through the door.

“What’s up guys? Are you ready for a night of nothing but Channing Tatum? He’s sooo yummilicious!” She gushed.

“She’s The Man? Again? We just saw that twice last weekend. Not quite sure how we managed it, but we did.” I rolled my eyes and popped a chip into my mouth.

“Not just She’s The Man. We’ve got Step Up, too. And besides, watching Channing Tatum with his shirt off close to three times in a row will be a nice change next to the same sweaty guys we see every day.”

She had a point.

“Alright, let’s take all our crap and set everything up in the living room. Oh, and hide the cheesecake. If Ryan knows it’s here it’ll be gone before anyone else has a chance at it.” I slipped the goods back into the refrigerator, and hid it behind a single head of lettuce, our one attempt at a healthy diet. He’d never look there. Christina rummaged around in the cabinet for a bowl to dump the chips in while Tasha set up the DVD player, and Tiffany went in search of the playing cards. Just then, the door burst open and the boys walked in, wearing their jackets.

“Where do you think you guys are going?” Christina tried her best to sound authoritative.

“We’re going to go see Cloverfield; you guys can come if you want.” David said. We girls just stared at them.

“You’re serious?”

“What?” Ryan looked genuinely clueless. What else is new?

“Um…hello.” I gestured at the pile of movies and snacks on the coffee table that, at the moment, was under intense scrutiny from my cat, Jack. “You could have asked us first! We went to all this trouble to have a decent party with you guys tonight.”

“That stuff will still be here when we get back. Do you guys wanna go or not?” Ryan looked at us, questioning.

“Um…excuse me, but some of us don’t have a job just yet and therefore have no money!” Tasha piped up.

“Don’t worry, we’ll cover you if you pay us back.” David offered, as he headed for the door.

Tasha and I exchanged a look. “No thanks, I’d feel really uncomfortable knowing I have to pay you back. It’d be hanging over my head every time I saw you.” She said.

David sighed. “Well, if you don’t want us to go, we won’t.”

“You just saw that movie last night!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, but they didn’t,” he said, gesturing toward the boys. “I was telling them about it, and now they really wanna see it.”

“Gee, thanks for that.” I said.

“C’mon, we want you guys to come, too,” Matt said, putting his hand on Tiffany’s arm.

I looked at my girls for help.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing it, but I also wanna watch our own movies. Plus, we went to all this trouble to get everything ready,” Tiffany reasoned.

“I think you guys need to just stay here and watch the movie with us ‘cause that was what you said you’d do in the first place, and Tiffany’s right, we did go to a lot of trouble.” Christina chimed in, as more of a warning than a request.

I felt my annoyance rising as my eyes darted from girl to girl, and the same thought was apparent on all of our faces. How dare they do this to us? They were so inconsiderate, so incredibly oblivious.

Then, surprisingly, my annoyance dissipated and was replaced with a curious, bubbling excitement. I thought about it for half a second longer before I calmly put my two-cents in.

“No, you know what, go ahead,” I said, placing my hands on my hips and pursing my lips.

“What?” Ryan asked suspiciously.

“Just what I said. Go see your movie.”

“Do you mean that or is this one of those girl tricks you guys do where you’ll pretend to be okay with something and then make us pay for it later?”

“No, we’re fine. Really. Go have fun.” I looked at my girls for backup.

“Yeah, we’ll be cool here without you guys.” Tasha joined.

“Um, yeah.” Christina joined.

“Are you sure? Now I feel bad.” Dan scratched his head and looked over at the guys for help.

“No man! Don’t look them in the eye! Don’t give in, they’re giving us the go-ahead, let’s get out while we still can!” David laughed and started out the door trying to tug Dan behind him.

I clenched my teeth and smiled straight at Ryan. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

He looked me straight in the eye for another minute before shrugging his shoulders and walking to the front door. “Alright, fine. But you can’t say we were being mean or stupid or anything else, because we offered. Remember that,” he said, pointing his finger at me and refusing to break eye contact.

“Oh no, we’d never think of that. You boys go have fun; we’ll be just fine here. Alone.” I said, a slow smile spreading across my face.

“Cool.” Ryan said, turning on his heel and joining the rest of the guys in the hallway. And with that, our four boys walked out on us, slamming the front door behind them.

***

“Can you believe them?” Tiffany huffed, as she plopped backward beside me onto my bed.

“Now what are we gonna do?” Tasha asked from underneath my pillow, sprawled facedown next to me on the other side.

“I guess we can just try doing what we told them we were going to do in the first place, and watch one of our movies.” Christina sat on the floor with her feet tucked under her, looking as confused as the rest of us, as we contemplated our predicament.

I looked around at my girls: Christina sat chewing her fingernails nervously; Tasha had emerged and now had her head in her hands, drumming her fingers anxiously against her cheeks; and Tiffany just lay there, tapping her finger against her lips, thoughtfully. I realized they were all feeling just as antsy as I was, and in that moment, I made a snap decision. “Well, we know we’re not staying here and letting them have all the fun.” I stood up and grabbed my purse.

“Alright. What do you suggest we do, then?” Tasha asked, standing up.

“I dunno, we’ll think of something on the way. Whatever we do, we definitely aren’t going to be waiting around for them when they get back.” I said, heading to the living room.

“Already on it,” Tiffany grinned as she sprinted for my keys, hanging on the hook by the door. We poured out of the apartment; barely able to keep from tumbling down the stairs in our rush to greet the night and the excitements it had in store for us.

Whether or not it was for the better is a question that is still, eleven years later, up for debate in my mind. All I know is this: procrastination changed my life for good.  It led to my awakening, it led to the truest form of friendship, it led to curiosity, it led to real love, and it led to heartbreak, which, in turn, led to further heartbreak. It led to my life.

How could I know that when I got dropped from all of my classes for non-payment, that I had way more to tangle with than an annoyed college advisor? That it would lead to my choosing to take Communications II with Mrs. Withers instead of Mr. Berser. That when I walked into Mrs. Withers’ class late on that first day (you already know I procrastinate, this shouldn’t come as a shock), that I was about to walk in embarrassed, because I had to take the very last seat in the back row. That this last open seat would place me between two boys, Ryan and Matthew, who would change my life forever.

How could I know at the time, that I was sitting between my future ex-best friend, and the best friend who would lead me to my future?

I knew none of this at the time, of course. I was merely a nineteen-year-old girl who thought herself too grown up. Who thought herself wise beyond her years, having lived a ton of life already, yet truly had no clue. A nineteen-year-old girl who thought the skinny boy to her left, with his long, shaggy brown hair, smelled a little funny and possessed a slight resemblance to Pee-wee Herman. Yet, there was something about him that she was drawn to.

But, as always, I digress.

***

January 8^th, 2006 

“Hmmffflllo..” I answered, not caring if the idiot with a death wish on the other line understood me or not. I glanced at my clock. Two in the A.M. Who the heck would be calling me at this hour? I had just moved to the smallish town of Melbourne, Florida to begin my college career and hardly knew anybody yet

Ah, those were the days.

“Hey, it’s Ryan.”

Ryan? I racked my brain, which was momentarily working slower than a herd of snails stampeding through a tub of glue. I came up empty-handed.

“Ryan who?” I asked, not bothering to hide my agitation. The laughter on the other line only heightened it.

“Did I wake you or something?”

“As a matter of fact you did, so will you just tell me who you are so I can get to tellin’ you off and go back to sleep?”

More laughter. I mumbled something that I had planned on sounding like a harsh stream of obscenities, but had really come out as, “Frumcckblas!”

The idiot was obviously enjoying himself. “Look, I just called because you’re in my English class,” he managed to get out through chuckles. “Remember? Our professor made us get the numbers of other students. You sit next to me. I was just seeing if our paper was due tomorrow.”

Finally the cowbell clanged in my head, followed by the sudden realization that he would be within poking distance tomorrow and revenge could easily be exacted.

“Why the heck are you calling me now? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Yeah. So is it due?”

For serious? “Um, yah it’s due tomorrow. We only have a few weeks of class left til midterms.”

“Thought so. I knew it was sometime soon.”

“I take it you’re a procrastinator? I myself am one at times. For instance, I’m going to put off kicking your butt til I see you tomorrow. At the moment, it’s not worth losing sleep over, or the gas to get to your house. Even if I knew where you lived.”

“Interested in finding out, huh? Why don’t I tell you and you can come over. And, after you fail miserably at kicking my butt, I can calm you down?” I could just hear the laughter in his voice.

“Are you coming onto me?”

“Not yet, but if you insist…”

“Look assjack, you can just take that idea and shove it up your-”

“Kinky.

“Why are you still on my phone?”

“I dunno, you tell me. You’re the one with the power to hang up.”

“Well…you have the same power. I think you’re just a masochist who likes being told off by a girl.”

“You call that being ‘told-off’?”

“Jerk.”

“Sexy.”

“I’m going.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“After the black eye I’m going to give you, you won’t be seeing much of anything.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Do me a favor, and just stop talking. In fact, don’t speak to me ever again!”

“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow!” He laughed as he hung up the phone.

And with that, Ryan catapulted himself into my life, bringing with him a highly unlikely, inexplicable, yet inseparable friendship.

I had always considered myself a nice person. One who could always find the silver lining in a seemingly hopeless situation, someone who could lift others up when they’re straggling behind, and a follower of not only the golden rule but a great “golden” rule: if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all. Yessir-e-bob, that was me, until I read this book.

First of all.

My favorite line: “…he wasn’t dead; only badly injured. (Squirrelly Character) hit him over the head and made sure he became dead. In other words, he murdered (Unfortunate Dude).”

This line pretty much sums up the writing and the overall, let’s play fast and loose with words here for a moment, “logical” flow of the entire plot line for Elayne Kull’s The Keyhole House.

The basic premise of this story is that the newly-widowed Ashley moves with her teenaged and (shocker) stereotypically attitude-infested daughter, Saia, to a house that has been Ashley’s dream home since childhood: a large, historic brick home known as “The Keyhole House.”  The house is, brace yourselves, haunted, by a ghost that can walk, talk,  and shoot the breeze with “sensitive” individuals. Aside from a few spelling errors and the fact that the book read like a short story submitted at the last minute for peer review so that the author could get credit for a creative writing elective by the end of the semester (I wouldn’t know from experience or anything…),  the “normality” and “humanlike” conversationalist quality of the ghost really pulled me out of the story. The fact that we are aware of who the killers are before the story has a chance to progress, gives the story a severe lack in mystery, and renders the one plot line that is supposed to be the “big reveal” anticlimactic.

Listen, folks. Life’s too short to drink bad wine, and to read even worse books, and no amount of wine in the world would make this whole shebang interesting…

Oddly enough, I’ve said the same about a few dates, but the rule still stands. Perhaps that should be the new golden rule.

With a surprising turn from Darcy Coates’ usual horror-infested plot lines, in The Folcroft Ghosts, it is not the dead you should fear, but the living. Darcy Coates’ latest novel makes the reader shudder on a whole new level. She draws you, as the naive and unsuspecting reader into a false sense of comfort through May’s gentle grandmotherly warmth and Peter’s soft-hearted core surrounded by the gruff exterior of hardworking farmer.

After receiving news that their mother was involved in an accident, Tara and Kyle are whisked away to an isolated mountain town to be taken in by grandparents they had never met before, and who had only been spoken of in hushed conversations. When they pull up outside the isolated farmhouse, they don’t know what to expect.

May and Peter Folcroft are like any other doting grandparents, lavishing their long-lost grandchildren with gifts that align with their favorite hobbies, while filling their tummies with decadent foods and their nights with warmth, laughter, and the love that only a family can offer. But as always, things are never as they appear when it comes to an isolated farmhouse nestled away in the mountains.

If you’re looking for a creepy  ghost story, you may be a bit turned off at first by the lukewarm easiness and the sugary sweet family moments of the first few chapters, as ghosts and the supernatural tend to take a backseat in this tale compared to the horror extravaganza so often found in Darcy Coates’ stories. However, rest assured that this is sure to be a fast favorite for fans of Darcy’s work, as it chills the bones on an entirely new level.