Published by Spencer Hill Press on 9th July 2013
Genres: Paranormal, Thriller, Young Adult
Buy on Amazon US • Buy on Amazon UK
On the night seventeen-year-old Jeremy Glass winds up in the hospital with a broken leg and a blood alcohol level well above the legal limit, his secret crush, Susannah, disappears.
When he begins receiving messages from her from beyond the grave, he's not sure whether they're real or if he's losing his grip on reality.
Clue by clue, he gets closer to unraveling the mystery, and soon realizes he must discover the truth or become the next victim himself.
I’m alone with my trussed-up leg and a package from Susannah. The phone shuddering beside me nearly jolts me off the bed. It’s a text. A YouTube link from Susannah. I click the link and it directs me to another one of her animations. Leaves float through black space in the herky-jerky, stop-action way that is Susannah’s style. She wanted to study animation, I think. She’d just come back from visiting her way older half-brother, Dennis, in Rhode Island. One of her mother’s cast-offs, Susannah called him. She’d often wondered how many more there were. Going to RISD meant everything to her. Why on earth would she run away now, when she was almost free? Where would she go? I think of her face as she told me she skipped out on the college tour, and watch the small screen cluttered with Susannah’s personal iconography. Old gravestones. Torn lace. Faded cigar boxes. Before she’d left, I’d barraged her with interesting tidbits about Rhode Island and she’d scribbled them in the ratty little notebook she took wherever she went. The first circus pitched its tent in Newport in 1774. The world’s oldest operating carousel is in Watch Hill. Hence, the pen from Watch Hill. And, sure enough, a carousel horse flies past an eerie circus tent. I shudder. This is recent. And I wonder— has Susannah been keeping secrets of her own from me? From everyone? The scene closes in on a mound of dirt. A pair of disembodied hands unearth a peeling cigar box. The box opens. Inside is a word in old wood-type lettering. And I have my answer.
Shaking, I rest my phone upside-down on the bedside table. My eyes close, and all I can see is her face, watching me, asking me silently what I’m going to do, forcing me to relive the many ways I’ve failed her. I lie there, the package sitting on my lap. An hour. Two hours. Time here is, again, shapeless, measured by the beeps of the equipment I’m connected to. I step onto the cloud that has lowered itself like a magic carpet.