Bogeyman. Gayle Wilson

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      This book is dedicated to the strongest, most wonderful group of women I know, with my love, my gratitude and my deepest admiration…

      Jill, Kelley, Connie, Lisa, Michelle, Dorien, Peg, Linda, LJ, Karen, Sherry, Geralyn, Stef, Teresa, Diane, Nic, Donna, Julie and Allison.

      Thank you for everything!

      And a very special dedication to Angelon.

       She knows all the reasons why.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Coming Next Month

      Prologue

      Twenty-five Years Earlier…

      She had known he would come tonight. In spite of the rain and the cold. In spite of her praying “Please, Jesus” over and over again since Rachel had turned out the light.

      She listened, but there was no sound now except her sister’s breathing, slightly whistling on each slow intake of air. And the rain, of course, pelting down on the tin roof overhead.

      It made enough noise to drown out anything else, she reassured herself. Whatever she thought she’d heard—

      The sound came again, and this time there was no doubt what it was. She had anticipated this, dreaded it too many nights not to recognize that soft tapping on the glass.

      She opened her eyes to the darkness, staring up at the ceiling as if she could see through it to the storm above. Maybe if she waited—if she pretended to be asleep—maybe this time Rachel would hear him and wake up. Or maybe Mama would get up to check and see if they were warm enough.

      The tapping came again. Louder. Demanding.

      Her sister’s breathing hesitated, a long pause during which she repeated her talisman phrase again. Then the sounds Rachel made settled back into that same pattern of wheezing inhalation followed by sibilant release.

      Mama always said Rachel slept like the dead.

      Mama…

      If she got out of bed and tiptoed across the floor to the door, surely with the noise of the rain, she could open it without him hearing. And if he didn’t hear, then he would never know that she’d told.

      If you ever tell anyone…

      She quickly destroyed the image his words created. Denied them because she couldn’t bear to think about what would happen if she didn’t go to the window….

      She took a breath, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the burn of tears. Please, dear Jesus.

      Except Jesus hadn’t answered her prayers any of the other times. Somewhere inside her heart she knew he wasn’t going to answer tonight.

      Which meant that nobody would. There was nobody she could turn to. Nobody who could do anything about what he’d told her he would do if she didn’t mind him. Nobody but her.

      She opened her eyes, raising her arm to scrub at them with the sleeve of her nightgown. He didn’t like it when she cried. He said it spoiled everything. And that if she wasn’t real careful—

      She drew another breath, fighting to keep it from turning into a sob. Then, moving as carefully as she could, she pushed back the sheet and the piled quilts and sat up, putting her bare feet on the stone-cold floor.

      By the time he tapped again, she was at the window. As she put her fingers around the metal handles of the sash to lift it, she couldn’t find even enough hope left inside her heart to repeat the words she’d prayed all night. The ones they had told her at Sunday school would protect her from evil.

      Now she knew that they, too, had lied.

      1

      Present Day…

      The storm had increased in intensity, rain pounding against the windows as if demanding admittance. Not for the first time Blythe Wyndham regretted the isolation of the small rental house she and her daughter had moved into two months ago.

      She’d never been easily spooked—not by thunderstorms or by being alone—but right now she was wondering why she hadn’t taken her grandmother up on her offer to move back into the family home. The hundred-year-old farmhouse, which the Mitchells had occupied since its construction, was almost as isolated as the one in which she and Maddie were currently living. Still, it had been home for most of Blythe’s childhood, and she had always felt completely safe there.

      Safe?

      Blythe shook her head, wondering at her use of the word. There was no reason to think the house they were in wasn’t safe. She couldn’t ever remember consciously worrying about that before. Why the thought would cross her mind tonight—

      “We haven’t said my prayers.”

      Her daughter’s reminder destroyed Blythe’s momentary uneasiness. Smiling, СКАЧАТЬ