By J. P. Hightman
"It's whatever of a Romeo and Juliet tale. there has been a tender couple in Salem, some time past . . . And the girl's mom, she hated the boy. while the witch-hunting all started, mom, daughter, and suitor all ended up on the Blackthorne hanging."
Now, a long time later, within the chilly, darkish middle of the Victorian era—an age of black outfits and black moods—one educate is sure for Blackthorne, close to Salem, the place a wintry weather carnival awaits. The automobiles are jam-packed with the promise of fireworks, sleigh rides, and skating. yet for Tess and Tobias Goodraven, this educate will take them to a spot a lot darker than they imagined.
Even a pro pair of ghost hunters like Tess and Tobias didn't count on a witch like previous mom Malgore—a witch who stalks the forests, silent as snow fall, looking, hungering. whilst the teach derails and the casualties climb, the Goodravens needs to bridge the space among previous and current tragedies in the event that they have any probability of quieting the souls of the dwelling, the lifeless, and the haunted.
In J. P. Hightman's richly woven tale of ghosts and witchcraft, the straightforward is sinister, the lifeless stalk the dwelling, and the sole weapon is love.
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Extra info for Spirit
The BMW had a satellite navigation system. Of course, that would be standard in a luxury car like this, but this one had risen out of the dashboard like something in a James Bond film, full-colour and with a high-definition screen. What was strange was that it seemed to have activated itself automatically. Neither of the boys had touched anything. “Put in our destination,” Harry commanded. “I don’t know our destination,” Jason said. ” Jason remembered that it was a town on the Suffolk coast. “Yeah.
They had parked in a narrow street, next to a shop selling lanterns, chairs, boxes and chessboards, all of which were hanging off the front wall and spilling onto the pavement. ” Charles Atchley demanded. “This is it,” the driver agreed with a smile. ” Charles whined. “It’s a riad,” his mother explained. ” The truth was that Charles Atchley had never wanted to go to Marrakech. It might be a holiday abroad, but from what he had heard, the city in Morocco would be hot and sweaty with no beaches, no McDonald’s, no amusement parks and nothing much to do at the hotel except sit and read.
Charles Atchley demanded. “This is it,” the driver agreed with a smile. ” Charles whined. “It’s a riad,” his mother explained. ” The truth was that Charles Atchley had never wanted to go to Marrakech. It might be a holiday abroad, but from what he had heard, the city in Morocco would be hot and sweaty with no beaches, no McDonald’s, no amusement parks and nothing much to do at the hotel except sit and read. And as he hated books, what was the point of that? Worse still, the food would be strange, the people would speak little or no English, there would be flies everywhere and he would have to spend hours either walking through ruins or struggling up the Atlas Mountains.