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Anything for His Son
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 £3.15

Justice for a Ranger
 £2.68
 £3.15

Ten years ago, Victoria Hoffman left the monstrosity of a house at the top of Falcon Ridge and vowed never to return.

She’d had to leave to survive.

But here she stood once again in its cast shadow, dread knotting her stomach, painful memories assaulting her as dark clouds shrouded the waning light and painted black streaks across the exterior.

Jagged icicles clung to the window ledges while muddy snow caked around the base of the house. Weeds climbed the massive stone walls, and the rough edges had grown grayer, weathered with dirt, spiderwebs and mold. The cold frigid air brought reminders of the dead roses in the overgrown garden out back, of blood and the echo of terrified screams piercing the night, grisly smells and sounds that had haunted her forever.

The house was cursed. Everyone who’d ever been associated with or lived within the cavernous walls with its garish gilded windows and hollow turrets had died - except for her and her father.

And he was in the hospital now, barely hanging on to life by a thread after a near fatal car crash.

Her hands shook as she climbed the stone steps to the portico and glanced at the ornately carved gargoyle, then at the brass knocker that created a thunderous roar through the two-story foyer; a roar that she knew drifted all the way to her childhood bedroom.

The bedroom where she’d lain at night and listened to the disturbing cries.

The memories yanked her back as if a tangled vine from the garden had wrapped around her, choking the life from her...

The squeak, squeak, squeak of the rocking chair droned on, endless and eerie, in the dark of night.

Victoria huddled under the covers, trying to drown out the sound, along with the incessant crying.

First, her baby sister’s shrill scream.

Then her mother’s, because little Sally Jo had died.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word...” Her mother’s voice, usually so strong and melodic like a harp playing, quivered with pain.

Tears surged to Victoria’s eyes and spilled over. It was all her fault little Sally Jo was gone. She was supposed to watch her. But she’d turned away for a second, and when she looked back, Sally Jo had crawled to the top of the ladder to escape a rattlesnake. Victoria had tried to save her, but the ladder swayed. And Sally Jo had fallen.

Then the terrifying screams began. Sally Jo’s. Her mother’s.

Her own.

Creak. Creak. Creak. “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird...” Her mother’s voice faded for a moment as if she couldn’t go on, but she finally finished the verse.

And then there was silence.

No more singing. No more cries.

The utter quiet that sent a chill up her spine. Just as it had when Sally Jo had lain in that casket with closed eyes.

Panic squeezed Victoria’s chest, and she ran through the dark pitted hallway to Sally Jo’s room. The rocking chair was empty. Her mother lay on the floor, her white cotton gown flowing around her ankles in a puddle. An empty pill bottle lay at her side.

“No!”

Victoria dropped to her knees and shook her mother, but her head flopped back and forth like a rag doll. Fear jammed in her throat. No, God no! Her mother couldn’t be dead, too.

She tried to scream for her daddy, but the sound ricocheted off the concrete walls and rang over and over in her ears.

Just as Sally Jo’s last cry had. Just as it would forever.

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