A mystery ghost story with oomph, crisply written, with sharply-drawn characters, this book is a one-sitter. It pulls you through seamlessly, adding layer, shadowing the tangles, and delivering you to a denouement that has you wondering how it got so complex so fast.
Carbone’s prose is clean. Her approach to scenes is to being in media res and let the actions carry you through. It’s effective, especially when she is dropping hints about the crimes, the ghostly goings on, and the possible reasons for it all.
A compleat professional, Carbone does not let the reader lapse into dull spots or wander off for a cup of coffee. Her story, and the plight of Marnie, is compelling: Fired from her job after her husband is murdered, pregnant, Marnie seeks a place of refuge so she can have the baby and get her shattered life back on some kind of acceptable track.
She finds a lovely cottage in a charming New England village. Almost at once, though, unsettling aspects arise. A deja-vu familiarity with the cottage and town, for one. Her importunate, perhaps crazy neighbor, an intrusive guy who keeps saying upsetting things that make little sense. Dire warnings, hints of hauntings, and a hair-trigger nervous energy make the man seem crazy, yet Marnie senses things that might just confirm some of what he’s saying.
Who is he? Does she know him? Does he know her? Is he a stalker?
Then the little girl shows up. Sad, silent, and misty. The visits are short and spectral, puzzling Marnie. She moves from startled through fearful to curious. What is the ghostly little girl trying to lead her to? What does she want her to realize? A part of her must know. Another, deeper part screams at her to stop, to run, to get away from the deepening shadows.
When the revelations come it is an unraveling worthy of a Hitchcock film and darker than one of Clive Barker’s night frights. This is an enjoyable horror mystery ghost story that deserves to be filmed in 1940s style. Grab a copy at www.shadowridgepress.com or from your favorite small press source.
/// /// ///