Age Range: 12 and up
Approx. Length: 27,066 Words
Have you ever kept a secret from even yourself? On one rainless electric night, Frieda Noff will learn the truth about her past, her relationship with her sister, and her hometown’s darkest secrets. It is All Hallows again, twenty years after she went down that fateful gauntlet of haunted houses as a Trick-Or-Treater. She’s finally back, perhaps to stay this time.
A young woman is confronted by the ghosts of her demons when she must return to Leery Lane, the dead-end where she lost an important piece in the puzzle of her past. She and her sibling haven’t spoken in two decades, since that terrible Halloween when Frieda borrowed something that belonged to Francine without permission. She feels that she needs to remember what it was and find the object of contention, somewhere in a row of decrepit Victorians, to repair the rift between sisters. But some secrets are better left buried. A witty blend of Gothic Horror, Humor, Supernatural and Mystery, Leery Lane is a ghost story to curl up with and savor. Take a walk you won’t be able to forget on the creepy side of town . . .
The Illustrated Print Edition features macabre artwork by the author.
Air pummeled her from behind. A leg encroached, passing the line. A sole and heel firmly met forbidden territory. She posed, scared to exhale. When she did, a tense string of thoughts escaped.
~ from Leery Lane
Adopting a timid pace, she advanced to the manor, Victorian Gothic in design and ambiance. The whole lane exuded a bleakness that gnawed at her like teeth on bone.
~ from Leery Lane
IT WAS THE PLACE kids were warned about from birth. A dun avenue, situated apart, treacherous as a blind alley. One of those streets you knew you shouldn’t go down at night. Or even in the daylight hours. Always there, on the fringe of consciousness. Beyond the range of sidewalks where pools of blackness didn’t outnumber the splashes of light; where your voice could probably still be heard if you cried out. It lurked in a duskier state than the rest of Sunnyside, whether High Noon or the Witching Hour. There was no yellow tape looping the perimeter. No red cautionary beacon adorning its threshold. And no KEEP OUT sign pounded in the earth upon a stake. But there should have been.
She knew all this as she drew a breath on its verge, toeing a narrow line between safe and sorry. The road was bordered by Weeping Willows and other spooky trees that cast grim shadows under moon or sun. Relic houses the town was too craven, too chicken to demolish loomed in a Halloween gauntlet.
Waiting. Whispering her name. “Frieda . . . . .”
Wind gusted; a shudder swept up an icy spine. Instinct rattled her bones, and fright strummed nerves like a ukulele.