Hemlock Island by Kelley Armstrong EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Kelley Armstrong
- Language: English
- Genre: Occult Horror
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
“Laney,” a voice says in my ear. “Aunt Laney!”
The last one startles me, gasping, out of sleep. Some parents call their
kids by their first and middle name when they’re in trouble. My sixteenyear-old niece calls me “Aunt” when I’m doing something to piss her off,
and right now what I’m apparently doing is sleeping when she wants to talk
to me.
My mumbled “What?” comes out as a groan.
“Your phone?” The offending object appears, waggling back and forth as
I struggle to focus on blurred text.
Four missed calls.
I thump back onto the pillow. “It’s the middle of the night,” I mutter.
Then I bolt upright in my narrow bed. Four missed calls in the middle of the
night. I snatch the phone from Madison.
“It’s not Gran or Gramps,” she says. “It’s the campground at Fox Bay.”
It takes a moment for my sleepy brain to process that. I blink, seeing
only Madison’s face hovering in front of me, spiky auburn hair framing a
pale oval face so much like my sister’s it makes my heart clench with grief.
“Laney?”
What was she saying? Right. The call came from a campground at—
“Shit!” I blink fast. “Hemlock House.”
I fumble to retrieve my messages. “Please don’t tell me it’s a fire. I told
the renters the area’s under a no-open-flame order, and it’s always ‘Oh, but
it was just a little fire.’ If they—”
The phone vibrates. FOXY LADY CAMPGROUND flashes on the screen, and I
jab the Accept button.
“Hello?” I blurt.
I’m quivering, rocked by visions of Hemlock House in flames. Does
insurance cover it if renters light a fire after I warned them? Did I warn
them by text? If it was a phone conversation, they can deny—
“What is going on in that house of yours?” The woman’s voice is loud
enough that I think I have it on speaker, and when I hit the button to turn it
off, I actually switch into speaker mode. I go to flip it back, but Madison
swats my hand and leans in to listen.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is there a problem? I’m not there right now. I’ve
rented out the house—”
“I know that,” the woman snaps. “Because you rented it to me.”
“Ms.…” I struggle for the name. “Teller?”
“Abbas. Mrs. Abbas.”
Right. The Tellers were the last renters. Or maybe the ones before
that …
“Mrs. Abbas,” I say. “Is there a problem?”
“No, I’m calling to ask how to use the shower … in the middle of the
night, after driving that leaky boat five miles to town, and then hunting
everywhere for a pay phone because our cell phones won’t work even when
we’re not on the island.”
My first impulse is to say that the boat is in better shape than my damn
car because I need to keep it that way for guests. Any “leak” was water
sloshing over the sides.
But that’s not her point, and so I say, as calmly as I can, “What’s the
problem, Mrs. Abbas?”
“There is blood in the green bedroom.”
Madison’s brows shoot up.
“So there seems to be blood—” I begin
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