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About the Book
It's the end of the world…
…as Murray Macabe knows it. The security of his home life has been ripped out from under him when his mother was brutally murdered. Rejected by his aunt, Murray only has one place left to go, and that's to live the rest of his life with a woman he barely knows.
To Grandmother's House He Goes
At first, life with his grandmother doesn't seem like it's going to be that bad, but Murray soon learns his grandmother harbors dark secrets.
Double, Double Toil and Trouble; Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble
As bad as Grandma's secrets might be, they are nothing compared to the secrets held by the neighbors, three elderly women who have set their sights on Murray for their own dastardly purposes. Soon Murray finds himself fighting for his very life, and there's no one to turn to for help because everyone knows there's no such thing as witches.
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Keep reading for an excerpt:
Grandma stood with a slight groan. “Murray? Would you be a dear and go turn on the hose for me? The spigot’s on the side of the house, just off the path.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, sweetie.”
Murray turned and headed toward the path winding to the front yard. The roses flanked him momentarily, swaying, leaning after him. He stepped up his pace. He sighed as the garden receded like waves on a shore, the haunts failing to snag him in their undertow. He set foot on the sun-bleached bricks and hurried to the corner of the house.
The neighboring dreary dwelling came into view. A mighty oak cast the fenceless backyard in shadows. Dandelions and creeping Charlie dotted the ankle-high lawn. A rusted, chain link dog kennel begged for use beside an overgrown mulberry. The house itself — two stories tall, split-level, and stucco with shuttered windows. The slate half hip roof added to the overall resemblance of a giant tombstone. Murray figured it was either haunted or once served as a mortuary.
He spotted the white spigot protruding from the side of the house, fastened to the green hose. A trickle of water seeped from the connection and dripped below. Murray approached it and reached for the red handle.
A shadow flitted out of the corner of his eye. A guttural growl stopped him in his tracks, his hand frozen on the handle.
He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. A jet-black Rottweiler crept from the shadows of the yard. Murray’s first thought was Cujo, even though the breed differed. A brown streak curved from its hooked nose to the tip of its tail. It bared its fangs, snarling as it slunk between the oaks, pursuing its prey like a starved lion.
Murray’s heart somersaulted and his body broke into a sweat. He looked to his right. Grandma Anna remained in the backyard, out of sight.
He let go of the handle and backpedaled. He grunted as the spigot jabbed him in the calf. Cornered! His mind hurtled through corridors of past advice. He knew it wise to stand tall and allow a dog to sniff the hand. Yet with a hostile animal, did the same rules apply? He knew he could make a run for it, but doubted he would win the race.
The Rottweiler continued to approach, slowly, stalking through the shadows. It crossed the property line, which was divided by a sunray. Its gaze narrowed, full of rage, as if the mere sight of a child ruined its day.
Murray glanced about, eyes wide, praying Grandma Anna would show up, perhaps wondering what prolonged his departure. No such luck.
The Rottweiler sprinted toward him, barking breathlessly. It stopped a yard away and snapped its jaws. Murray cringed against the house.
