Ryan Avery is a young skeptic tired of living in the peculiar town of Wrenoakey, where ghost stories are as common as the wind. Residing at the renowned Bramble Farm with his ghost-enthusiast Aunt Hattie, Ryan is convinced her ghost tours are just e...
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The people of Finton Hollow were not haunted by ghosts or Darcists anymore. In these New Times, people slept more soundly knowing their government had taken care of both of those problems. The ghosts had been sent on to the Isles of Choice, the Darcists dragged off to the institutions, and The Demon-Sickness had been eradicated. The Hard Times had been over for nearly a decade, but a deep wound remained that was torn open each autumn when photos of all those who went missing were floated by the Government Magicians through the streets surrounded by hundreds of floating black candles in a solemn evening procession. This annual procession was joined by many in the town who came out from their homes as it passed to escort this procession on its journey to the homes of the families of the lost. They carried white candles of hope because the people of Finton Hollow knew that hope created its own kind of magic.
On this cold November evening, the Procession of Lost Souls made its way through the town's center and moved up the long winding road to the Hawthorne Proper mansions that lined the cliffs over the sea. The old widow of Middle Manor, Nollie Silvermoon, stood in the large darkened window of her third-story study in her pale blue flannel dressing gown, robe, and slippers. Her white hair was in a single braid that draped over her shoulder. She stared out at the distant road to see the tiny lights of the floating candles breaking up the darkness, and she felt the familiar sinking in her stomach.
Middle Manor was the first stop for the Procession of Lost Souls in this affluent neighborhood, but this mansion hardly looked like it belonged there. It was the smallest, oldest, and most worn mansion in Hawthorne Proper. It sat at the back of a large, neglected front lawn. The narrow drive had been overtaken by brambles and tall grasses that squeezed in on it, making it nearly impassable even by foot. It was shielded by the tangled branches of untrimmed trees, and thick ivy nearly swallowed up the old stone building, leaving only the windows on the upper floor visible. The entire property was surrounded by a tall stone wall, and the sturdy barred gate at the front was always chained shut.
Middle Manor welcomed no visitors from the town. Not even tonight.
Still, Nollie Silvermoon was not alone. Behind her, a small, misshapen creature occupied one of the green wingback chairs near the fireplace. He fit into the wingback chair the way a child might. His arms and legs were thin and stick-like. His large feet were wide and flat with four long stick-like toes. While there was something vaguely human about him, it was distorted, as if the land itself had put him together from mixed bits. His large head had frightened Nollie when she first saw it as a girl peeking out at her from the edge of the forest. It was too large for his small, frail-looking body and looked much like a sideways lumpy potato sitting low on his narrow, bony shoulders. Huge amber eyes that reminded Nollie of an owl sat on either side of his long nose that dangled down over his very wide, thin mouth. He rarely blinked. His gray skin flecked with brown was coarse like the rough bark of a tree. At one time, he had no hair, but now fine white hairs sprung up in patches around his head and looked like a dandelion about to go to seed. Nollie knew he had already lived over seven hundred human lifetimes. Troll races lived long, but Rockmoss was still old for a Drowkin.
