By Tananarive Due
The house that belonged to Angela Toussaint's past due grandmother is so liked that townspeople in Sacajawea, Washington, name it the nice condo. yet that every one adjustments one summer time while an unforeseen tragedy occurs in the back of its closed doors...and the Toussaint's kin background -- and destiny -- is dramatically reworked. Angela has now not again to the nice apartment considering her son, Corey, died there years in the past. yet now, Angela is ultimately able to go back to her place of origin and transcend the grave to unearth the reality approximately Corey's dying. might or not it's on the topic of a terrifying entity Angela's grandmother battled seven a long time in the past? And what in regards to the different mindless calamities that Sacajawea has visible in recent times? Has Angela's grandmother, an African American lady reputed to have "powers," positioned a curse at the whole community?
A exciting exploration of secrets and techniques, lies, and divine proposal, "The strong House" will hang-out readers lengthy after its chilling end.
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Extra resources for The Good House
John! ” The thing gave chase, its shaved-ham feet slapping the floor behind me. My candle went out. I tossed it aside. I saw a closed door to my right, so I skidded to a stop, threw it open, and flung myself in. Linen shelves smacked me in the face and I fell back out of the closet, dazed. The meat man wrapped its cold links around my neck and lifted me up. It pinned me against the wall. “You disappoint me. All those times we have dueled. In the desert. In the city. ” I was so impressed by this thing’s ability to articulate words using that flapping deer tongue and a frozen turkey that I almost lost track of what it was saying.
My adopted family moved away, I won’t tell you where they are. But get out your pen because you’ll want to write this down. My biological mom? ” “That must have been hard. What was the—” “She was a strung-out, crank-addicted cannibal, dabbled in vampirism and shamanism. My mom, she worshipped some major devil when I was a toddler. Blew her welfare check every month on black candles. Sure, Satan would do her favors now and then, but there’s always a catch with the Devil. ” “No. This, this silliness, it’s what I do when I’m nervous.
I spun around, moved toward the commotion. The dog seemed to eye me carefully, then ran off in the other direction. I looked around— Ah. Giggling now. There was a bundle of girls, away from the stage, huddled with their backs to the band. They were surrounding a black guy with dreadlocks, an overcoat. He had one of those Rastafarian berets on his head, definitely going for a look, wanting the attention. Two of the girls had their hands over their mouths, eyes bulging, screaming for the guy to do it again, do it again.
The Good House by Tananarive Due