Читать книгу Waterford Point - Alana Matthews - Страница 8

The crying was what awakened her.

For a moment she thought she was dreaming; the sound circled inside her head like a persistent insect, refusing to go away. But as she fully awakened, she realized that it was all too real, a muffled but unmistakable keen coming from outside her bedroom window.

She abruptly pulled herself upright and strained to hear, a vague uneasiness simmering in her chest.

Was it an animal of some kind? A bird? An injured deer?

No.

This was definitely human.

And female.

Feeling a knot in her stomach, she swung her legs around and stood, surprised by the chill of the polished wooden floorboards beneath her bare feet.

This wasn’t her first night here, and she knew she should be used to her surroundings by now. But it seemed that every time she got out of bed, she anticipated the feel of warm carpet—the carpet in her own bedroom in D.C.—only to be startled by this cold bare floor.

Padding to the window, she undid the latch and pushed it open, letting in the night air. The sound floated in just beneath the whisper of the wind—

The sobs of a broken girl.

A soul irrevocably wounded.

It came from a forest of Eastern pine that stood just forty yards away from the old house, across a rustic backyard. A thin mist hung in the air around the trees, the forest dark and foreboding.

Her heart thumped wildly as she listened to the sobs, and with sudden dread she knew she’d made a mistake coming home again.

The stories she’d heard were true.

This wasn’t make-believe. A fairy tale. A quaint little piece of local folklore. And as much as she might try, she knew she’d never be rid of her past.

It was right outside.

Haunting her.

Waiting for her in the trees.