By Barbara Michaels
Joanne McMullen's fears for her sister's sanity have introduced her to distant King's Island, Maine. Mary's grief over the lack of her baby is threatening to ship her over the edge—and her insistence that she has heard an eerie, childlike wailing within the woods fuels Joanne's anxiousness. And now Mary's taken to disappearing at nighttime looking for the resource of the heartrending moans. yet it isn't simply her sister's encroaching insanity that's chilling Joanne's blood—it's her personal. simply because without warning, impossibly, she additionally hears the crying baby.
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Additional info for The Crying Child
As it was, I could let out my feelings on him, spinning around with a start and a stifled shriek that echoed the creak of the floorboards. “Oh,” I said. ” Jed put the suitcases down and straightened up to his full height, which was considerable. He smiled at me. It was an effective smile, considering its extent, which barely cracked the surface of his cheeks. Despite its melancholy, his was an affable face. It was also amazingly expressive. Each feature seemed to be capable of independent movement, and he could convey as much emotion in the twitch of his nose or the lift of a sandy eyebrow as other people could in a long speech.
I was the only one waiting up for him. Mary had gone to bed right after dinner. When I offered to come up with her she refused. Mrs. Willard always helped her. Mrs. Willard knew about her medicine. Mrs. Willard would take care of everything. Mrs. Willard was the housekeeper. A big, square woman, she must have been at least fifty, but she moved with the vigor of a girl, and she cooked like an angel—if angels cook. Except for the Willards’ niece Flora, who came in to help out occasionally, Mrs. Willard and her husband Jed made up the household staff.
Willard would take care of everything. Mrs. Willard was the housekeeper. A big, square woman, she must have been at least fifty, but she moved with the vigor of a girl, and she cooked like an angel—if angels cook. Except for the Willards’ niece Flora, who came in to help out occasionally, Mrs. Willard and her husband Jed made up the household staff. The terms of address were characteristic of the pair; I couldn’t imagine calling Mrs. Willard by her first 30 Barbara Michaels name any more than I could have called Jed anything else.
The Crying Child by Barbara Michaels