Product Description
When renowned author Richard Hunter dies in a boating accident, his son David travels to Mason's Corner, Mississippi, to find out more about the father he never really knew. At first, Mason's Corner seems friendly and unassuming-the perfect "small town." But after a newcomer moves into the old-and supposedly haunted-mansion on the hill, everything changes...
People begin to disappear. Dogs viciously attack. And soon David discovers that the terror consuming this place has its roots in his own family tree...
For something has risen in Mason's Corner. Something with bloody ties to the town's past. Something undead--and hungering for vengeance...
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Although William Hunter had lived his entire life as a slave on a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, he had never experienced anything like the horror he was about to face.
His muscles ached. His hands were sore, and dark with gunpowder. Blood--not his own--soiled his ragged shirt and pants.
Killing was hard work.
But they weren't done yet. The worst was still ahead of them.
He was part of a group of four men. One was a black man, a slave from the same cotton fields on which William had once toiled; one was a young white man, their slavemaster's son; the last man was a warrior from a Chickasaw Indian tribe.
They were an unlikely team, drawn together to battle a common enemy. Only an hour ago, there had been seven of them. Two had been killed; the other, unable to endure the terror, had run away.
"We don't have much time till dusk," William said, looking to the edge of the forest, where the orange-red sun steadily sank into the horizon. "We must finish what we've begun."
The men grunted. Their faces, sweaty and spattered with blood, were grim with resolve.
William knew that every one of them was as frightened as he was, but they were determined to conceal their anxiety. True courage was doing what you had to do--without giving in to fear.
Almost as one, they shifted to confront the cave. The ragged mouth was large enough to admit three men. Sharp stones jutted from the ridge of the maw, like teeth.
Like fangs, William thought. A shiver rattled down his spine.
The fading sunlight did not penetrate the thick blackness that lay beyond the entrance. Stepping inside the cavern would be like plunging into a deep Mississippi night.
He hoped that their weapons would be sufficient. He was armed with a rifle. The Indian warrior had arrows, the heads wrapped in kerosene-soaked cloth. The other black man gripped a shotgun, and the white man had a revolver--and a supply of dynamite powerful enough to shatter the cavern walls, if need be.
All of them carried whiskey bottles full of kerosene. A cotton rag dangled from each lip, a poor man's fuse.
They'd done the best they could with the wreckage they discovered at the ravaged plantation, the place that, only yesterday, had been his home.
William had fashioned a torch from a broken broom and a towel. He struck a match and lit the makeshift wick. The fire sputtered, then strengthened into a healthy flame.
He advanced to the front of the group. Holding the torch aloft, he looked at each man.
They were brave men. He did not understand how he'd become their leader. He did not understand much of anything that had happened since his old life had ended last night. He walked on instinct--and faith.
"One day, our children will thank us for this," he said. "Let us pray that they never have to follow in our footsteps."
The men nodded and murmured their agreement.
William Hunter turned to face the cave's mouth. This close, the stench of death wafted from inside like a dense fog.
He whispered a prayer, for himself and his men.
Then, he led them into the darkness.
