"I'm so hooked on these books!" -Reader
"You will not be disappointed with this book. It's a fast pace, scary, morbid page turner! Ron Ripley has a unique imagination and all of his books I've read are amazing" - Christine T.
"This supernatural horror of a mystery is a series you are going to love. They will keep you up nights..they are that good. I RECOMMEND!" - Reader
"I have read each book in this series and think this one is the best yet. Plenty of twists and turns kept me reading. I know I will think of this story anytime I have to visit a cemetery. Can't wait to read the next book in the series!" - Brenda C.
"Run..!! Don't look back the dead are coming" - Reader
From the Inside Flap
Thirteen days had passed since Emily had died.
John still couldn't sleep without half a bottle of vodka in him. It would kill him eventually, and as much as Emily would have hated it, John didn't mind the idea of it.
He had shaved for the first time since the funeral, and his face felt raw in the cool, May breeze. The jacket he wore was the thick, fleece-lined flannel she had bought for him, ten years before. Here and there the coat had been repaired, the small, neat stitches a constant reminder of Emily's careful, beautiful personality.
John fished a pack of American Spirit cigarettes out of his breast pocket, lit up and stared at the cemetery.
She'd be so angry if she could see me smoking, John thought. He exhaled a long, steady stream into the morning air.
She had helped rid him of all of his vices. Not in a nagging way. Never nagging. Care and love. Things John never had much of before Emily.
But the cigarettes and the alcohol helped him deal with her loss. They were crutches, he knew, but they were familiar ones. Old friends half-forgotten with age. John was seventy years old, and his continued existence was a testament to Emily's love, and to the blind eye of a malignant God.
Sinners in the hands of an angry God, John thought, remembering his Jonathan Edwards. He fought the urge to blame God for Emily's death. To blame anyone or anything for her death.
But her heart had given out. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
John sighed and smoked while standing outside the entrance to Woods Cemetery. Emily's headstone had been delivered the day before, and the company, which was out of Nashua, had called and left a message at seven in the morning. John would be damned if he wasn't shaved before he visited her. Didn't matter if she was dead or not; Emily had never seen him up and out of bed without a shave.
And he wouldn't stand at her graveside with a cigarette in his mouth either. He threw it down, crushed it out on the old, cracked asphalt. Self-consciously he brushed at his jacket, swept his fingers through his still damp, silver hair, and then he stuffed his hands into his pockets before he stepped over the invisible threshold and into the cemetery.
As he did so, it felt as though the temperature plummeted ten degrees. He shivered, pulled his head further into the collar, and glanced at the cemetery office off to the right. There was a light on in the sole window, and a man was bent over, probably at a desk.
Good to know someone's here at least, John thought.
He turned his attention back to the cemetery. As he started to walk along the battered old road, he felt uncomfortable, as though someone sat in darkness and watched him.
John's skin crawled, and he looked around several times. Yet he couldn't see or hear anyone else. Beyond the iron fence, however, a late morning ground fog had sprouted up. The marshes beyond the perimeter were undoubtedly the culprit, but nevertheless, it was an eerie and uncomfortable sight. It almost looked like someone had a special effects machine which had been turned on and left to run.
John shook his head and focused his thoughts on Emily, on her grave. Within a few minutes, he reached her burial spot. The marker was there.
Emily Ann Lee,
Beloved Wife of John, Salve for his Soul.
Born June 6, 1946.
Died April 20, 2016.
The stone was a pale pink, her favorite color.
He tried to think of something to say. Anything. John knew it didn't matter. She was dead. She couldn't hear him. And what could he say?
A flicker of motion caught his eye and he turned away from the ground which covered his beloved wife to the stone, so recently, placed there.
Nothing, he scolded himself. You're getting old.
But as he turned away, something moved again. John looked back and caught a glimpse of white within the headstone itself.
A trick of the light, John said, yet even as the thought came, he realized there was no visible sun. The northern clouds had swept in and hidden the great day star.
Suddenly, there was motion and a quick flash of white. John straightened up, stepped back and tried not to call out in surprise and shock.
The white he had seen was a hand. A hand pressed against the flat surface of the stone, from the inside. As quickly as he had seen it, though, it had disappeared.
You're going crazy, he told himself. Too much vodka. You're pickling yourself.
Before he could retort, the hand appeared again. And he recognized it.
It was Emily's hand.
Pale and terrible to look upon, the palm continued to press upon the stone as though it were a piece of glass. John stared in shock, unable to look away.
Then, her second hand appeared. The marker groaned as she pushed against it, the polished granite bowing outward slightly. Faintly, horribly, she mouthed his name. Emily's face suddenly pressed against the surface, the nose and lips flattened. Black, hollow eyes found his and a wicked, terrible smile spread across her once sweet face.
John staggered back, heard a high pitched scream and dully realized the noise was his own.