Into Underhill: Sneak Peek #1

Check out this sneak peek of my next novel: Into Underhill.

Sleep was elusive tonight. It slipped in and out of the corners of my eyes, like wisps of cobwebs that I could not grasp. I knew tonight would be like this; I never slept well when Barrett worked nights. I did not know if it was because of his warm, comforting presence, or the fear that, because I slept like the dead, when Cody cried I would not awaken. I closed my laptop. The Zen music I had hoped would slip me off into dreamland had not helped.

I rolled over and checked the time on my cell phone; it was 11:58, almost midnight. I groaned. I had to work in the morning and there was no way I was going to get enough rest tonight. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my breathing, in and out, in and out. I let my body sink into the bed with each exhale. I had almost reached the point between sleep and wake—where they say you would begin to lucid dream—when suddenly I felt a shift in the house.

My body instantly became alert and tense. At first, I thought that I was dreaming, that somehow my body was awake but my mind was not. I held my breath listening to the house creak and groan; to my golden retriever’s gentle snoring, my cat’s vibrating purrs. There! Again, I felt it. I knew the noises of the house at night, but this was not something I recognized. My house had shifted, something in it was unbalanced, a presence that did not belong, like a stone cast into my pool, and I was feeling the ripples.

I immediately rolled towards the bright glow of the baby monitor, my first thought to check on Cody. He was curled up in the corner of the crib, tucked against the bumper pads. A fleece blanket was clutched in his small arms and partially covered his face. I gripped the monitor, searching for any sign of something out of the ordinary: something different, something strange.

I saw him peacefully sleeping until my eyes adjusted to the light and dark and I realized that there was something else. Something I mistook for the fluttering of the drapes, but what I saw didn’t flutter, it was still, so very still. A black shadow shaped like a person arcing over his tiny body.

So many people imagine what they would do in a high-risk situation, would they fly? Run as fast as they could in the opposite direction? Or would they fight? I think that there is more to instinct than fight or flight, but at the moment the fear and fury rose up inside me. I could hear my heart pounding at my temples as if it would leap from my mouth and take up a sword of fiery blood and bone.

The bullet standing up by the monitor fit so easily into my hand. The barrel of my shotgun tucked close to my side. I had never loaded my weapon so easily as in this moment, and I had been duck hunting for years, taught by an expert marksman. My bare feet made no sound as I slipped through my open door. Eyes and barrel pointed upward. Finger poised on the trigger, the click of the button as I switched off the safety. Red is dead, red is dead, red is dead, the chant radiated through me.

My feet made soft suctioning sounds on the stairs, my whole body beginning to sweat with adrenaline and fear and rage. They were too loud. I needed silence. I was a hunter stalking my deer; I needed to come upon my prey unawares, lest they should bolt, or worse…

I reached the top of the stairs, my eyes honing in on the crib, barrel following close behind at a slight angle.

My pupils dilated in and out, adjusting to the dimness, the glow from the stove light added to the eeriness of the shadows playing in the corners of the room.

As I my whole body rounded the corner, I choked back a cry. A figure stood at the foot of my son’s crib. A figure dressed in black. A figure with pale arms and long slender fingers was reaching into the crib...

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