"The idea of cursed objects is terrifying as you begin to grow aware of the possibility that your mind is not your own, that you're being controlled by something dangerous, something that demands death. Do yourself a favor and lose yourself in the world of the haunted!" - Reader
"This series just gets better and better. The action of the story as well as the history of these haunted items is amazing. Mr. Ripley, you have a fan FOR LIFE!" - Reader
"I can't wait for the next book." - Amelthe
"This book is a fantastic read and I look forward to reading what's next." - Reader
"This story does not disappoint from the first one. Great read. Gets a five!" - Maureen
"Love the books, love the characters! Keep them coming!!" - Trish F.
"Great sequel - can't wait for book 3!" - Reader
"Ron Ripley yet again has not disappointed me. This book was outstanding and I cannot wait until the next book comes out in this series." - Beverly S.
From the Inside Flap
Walter slid the bolt action back and advanced the round with one, smooth motion. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and looked out onto the road.
Trees lined either side of the street, their leaves brilliant with the colors of fall. Shades of orange and red that blazed in the early morning light. The world was quiet and peaceful; the stretch of Vermont in front of Walter was a calm oasis away from the insanity of modern life, a refuge from the unrelenting demands of others.
Walter felt at ease, stretched out in the prone position on a poncho. From his place on a slight rise, he watched the length of asphalt below him over the iron sights of the rifle. Around him, the birds were silent, and the squirrels as well. The chipmunks that lived in the old, tumbled down stonewall Walter had settled behind remained hidden. Even the insects were silent.
All Walter could hear were the sounds his body made. The steady rhythm of his heart, the smooth inhalation and exhalation of breath, the rumble of his stomach. He had eaten only a small amount at breakfast, and he would do the same at noon.
But not any sooner.
He was in a good place. Physically and mentally.
Where the road curved, a shape appeared.
It was a runner, and as the person drew closer, he saw it was a man. The stranger kept a strong pace, the slap of running shoes on asphalt reaching Walter's ears. Each muscle on the runner was well defined, his look focused, and there was no wasted movement as his form was perfect.
Walter pulled the trigger, the rifle bucking against his shoulder.
The round slammed into the runner, sending the man tumbling onto the asphalt. A moment later, a high-pitched shriek filled the morning air, and Walter smiled. He stood up, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and bent down to roll up the poncho. Soon he had it tied and under one arm. The runner continued to scream, but Walter knew it would do little good. The particular stretch of road he had chosen was a favorite for runners and long distance cyclists, but not drivers. Too many potholes, too much debris from old trees.
Walter hooked a thumb under the sling of the rifle to keep it steady, and picked his way down the small hill he had positioned himself on. The closer he got to the road, the louder the cries of the wounded runner became.
Walter rolled his eyes and shook his head, disgusted with the loud complaints of the injured man.
When he reached the road, Walter stretched and shook his legs out, then took long strides towards the runner. He covered four hundred and twenty-nine feet before he reached the man and he was impressed with the amount of blood that had already leaked out. The runner's face was pale, his lips blue, and his entire body shaking. Blood loss would claim his life in a matter of minutes if the shock of the injury didn't do it first.
Smiling, Walter squatted down beside the man and waited.