Strident House is on sale for $0.99 for the first time, ever.

Excerpt:

Pat Price was sitting at one of her many desks. Because Strident house was so huge, and she was responsible for all of it, it was only practical that she had an office on every floor. This desk, located at the East end of the third floor locked unit was her favorite. It consisted of an antique ‘partners’ style desk that was actually a double desk with a desk top, drawers and file drawers with an office chair on both sides. Pat was amazed at the number of antiques, obviously once belonging to the Strident family, that had been left behind in what was the original cellar of the place. Well she supposed that no matter how many relatives they had had the original manor house had been so large,( larger in Pat’s opinion than the Stanley Motel that had been used for the movie’ The Shining’ )that the furniture would have filled three warehouses to overflowing. The leftover furniture had stayed and was stored below the occupied floors, the cache of furnishings including gilded mirrors, settees, paintings, and other detritus of their lives. Pat had salvaged the desk, along with a clock, two leather office chairs and two file cabinets from the storage cellar and cajoled the maintenance department to bring it up to Third for her. She liked sitting at the partner’s desk in particular. The craftsmanship was exquisite and the highly polished golden walnut wood it was fashioned from, with its dark whorls, was beautiful. Pat appreciated beautiful things, though she had never afforded herself many. Most of her extra money went to anonymously assist residents whose families had abandoned them at Strident House and never returned. As Pat concentrated on the medical histories stored on her laptop, a sheaf of papers that had been stacked on her desk blew sideways,rustling. Pat stared for a moment at them, the hairs rising on the back of her neck. There were no breezes—the bank of windows to the left of her desk had been painted shut for years. Again she felt a draft coming from directly behind her, rustling the papers again gently. “Mommy?” a voice said. The voice was barely perceptible, sounding as if it came from very far away. Pat’s fingers dropped from the keyboard of her laptop. “Junie?” she asked, ”Junebug—is that you?” Her answer was a girlish giggle that seemed to come from somewhere over her left shoulder. If Junie was alive today, Pat reflected, her youngest child would be in her mid twenties. But she still sounded like the little girl she had been. She always did when she visited. She had been five when she passed away. “I love you mommy,” Pat was aware that the air in the room was growing more energized—the voice was clearly audible even though it had a watery sound. This was followed by the sensation of a small hand being placed over the back of Pat’s hand. “I love you too Juniebug, forever and ever,” Pat told her, turning to the side where she’d felt the ghost hand on hers. For a moment she felt a small arm encircle her neck, and a tender pressure that Pat was sure was meant to be a hug. Each time Junie visited she was able to reach out to Pat a little more. But the energy was fading, drawing back. “Thank you Junie, ”Pat whispered,”I know you are with me.” And then, just as Pat did after every time Junie visited, she covered her face with her hands and wept.