Sabbath's House

Sabbath's House

Marilyn Celeste Morris

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Best selling author Joanna Elliott discovers a charming old Victorian mansion owned only by women of the Emily Harris family, but the remaining heiress has no descendants to inherit. Once the family moves in, however, psychic black cat Sabbath encounters spirits determined to continue the legend, once again putting the family in peril.

 
PUBLISHED BY: Vanilla Heart Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-935407-416
PUBLICATION DATE: 2009
WORD COUNT: 46000
SEXUAL CONTENT RATING: 1
EBOOK READER RATING:
CATEGORIES: Mystery/Suspense, Romantic Suspense, Paranormal
KEYWORDS: black cat, supernatural, mystery, suspense, Marilyn Celeste Morris, Vanilla Heart Publishing
 

EBOOKS BY Vanilla Heart Publishing

EBOOKS BY Marilyn Celeste Morris

 
EXCERPT
COPYRIGHT Marilyn Celeste Morris/2009

Chapter One

 

Ames, TX. Present Day


Email To: PamSpray
From: Joanna Elliott

I know this will come as no surprise to you, but we are moving from the House of Death to a cute Victorian-style house in Ames. The attic playroom will become my office, if we can get The Beast (my desk) up the stairs and into the room. The attic is the cutest thing, with a hobby horse and a large, colorful carousel horse and jack-in-the-box, all left there by the original owner’s children, untouched through time.
Rather than creeping me out (after all, what could creep me out after having lived with bodies buried in the root cellar) rather, they can keep me company as I toil away on the novel you have extorted from me. (Grin.) I wrap a few things, then think of something I want to write, so I write for a while, then resume packing.
Sam will have a shorter commute from there to his office, and the move will certainly increase his patient base from Slocum’s, as everyone in Ames seems to have a pet of some kind. Jason is looking forward to the move, too; he has a new dog now, another mutt, this one named Buddy, and they are getting along just like he and Mournful did. He can walk to school there, instead of standing out on a lonely country road where he could get kidnapped again.
Sabbath continues to be a source of comfort, leaping into my lap at odd times, purring while I stroke her, then she jumps down to go do whatever it is cats do. I don’t think she’ll like the move, though. Sam says cats don’t like changes of any kind, especially a new residence. We’ll have to watch her carefully after we get to the new house so she doesn’t escape and try to come back to the old house.
Although, I don’t know why any living creature would want to come back to this old house. At first, I thought the remote old farmhouse was charming, and I loved fixing up the sunroom as my office, which, as you remember, Sabbath appropriated as her own private spa.
But you know the things that started to happen right after Sabbath came to live with us. Sam joked that she used to belong to an old witch named Granny Copes who lived in the huge old house on the hill outside of Slocum, and she had named her Sabbath because she found her on that sacred day.
But Pam, you won’t believe this. I soon began to realize maybe Sam and the town folk weren’t joking, because the cat started having — uh, the best I can describe it is -- visions, right in front of me…shimmering, wavering visions of people seated in the living room, watching television, and then – this is the kicker, Pam – Sabbath finally showed us that some woman had shot the two people in the living room. She came inside, leveled her shotgun at them and fired, killing them both.
I saw it, Pam. Just like I was watching a movie, but more. Sound, smell…everything. And Sabbath was the projector.
Town folk had wondered what happened to the former owners of the farmhouse, Wand and Ralph Spencers, but that old Wilma, Wanda’s sister, brushed off any of their concerns, saying they had probably taken off somewhere in their car and run off a cliff or something.
Little did we know she had buried them in the cellar under the sunroom. Under my office. No wonder Sabbath sniffed and scratched at the oval rug covering the trap door. But we didn’t find this out until much later.
After Mournful was poisoned, I called Sheriff Pollard. He seemed to be on the verge of discovering what was going on out here when, danged if it didn’t beat anything, he was killed in a car wreck. I’m starting to talk like a native now….J
I’m sure if the Sheriff hadn’t been killed, he would have prevented Jason’s being kidnapped by that crazed old woman.
Thank God Jason had the resourcefulness to jump out of the old bat’s car as she was bringing him home to kill us all. Wilma swerved to avoid something, which turned out to Sabbath, and you know how the saying goes if you have a black cat cross your path it’s bad luck…. Well, she went crashing her car into the huge old pecan tree in the side yard. The crash killed her.
When the officials came to investigate, I told them my outlandish story (and I’m sure by now you’re thinking the Texas heat has gone to my head) and said if they would dig up the root cellar, they would find the remains of Ralph and Wanda Spencer.
Even after the bodies were removed, I couldn’t live here any longer than necessary. I don’t want to raise any child in this house. Oh, yeah. I’m three months pregnant! We started looking for a new house right away, but selling this farmhouse is going to be a problem; who wants to buy a haunted house?
But we’ll leave that up to Tommy Joe Greenleaf, the agent who sold me this house in the first place. If anybody can sell this house, Tommy Joe can. I don’t know why he isn’t selling used cars and making a fortune, but houses are his forte. And I’m going to start looking, anyway, even if this house doesn’t sell right away.
Well, this isn’t getting anything done. But I wanted to check in with you and let you know the status of the novel and about our move, which will no doubt delay much heavy-duty writing for a while. But I’ll make up for it when we get settled, I promise. This new office I’m planning will be just as conducive – or more – to writing as the old one. If I can huff and puff my way up to the attic as my pregnancy progresses.

Your psychotic author,
Joanna

 

 

 
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