Among the Fallen
by Henry Mitchell
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GENRE: Magical Realism
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BLURB:
Not everything is what it seems.
Drovers Gap, population 703, appears to the
tourists passing through as one more sleepy Appalachian village, just off the
interstate, on the way to someplace spectacular and important. But there are
simmering tensions and unspoken malice behind the seemingly placid facades, and
a spark from afar will ignite an explosive and insatiable evil that hungers to
devour the town and everyone in it.
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On an August afternoon that rendered the whole world a
sauna, Abigail Trammell labored in her front garden, pruning back her roses now
reduced by the unrelenting heat to a failure of withered blossoms and limp
yellow leaves, though not even the Japanese beetles had been able to dull the
thorns. Those remained sharp as ever.
She possessed shears some place that eluded her memory, so
wielded the sharp butcher knife she liberated from her kitchen, a sin she’d
only forgive herself. Startled, she nearly slipped and sliced her fingers when
she heard the unfamiliar voice behind her.
“Miss Trammell?” A man’s voice only maybe, with a peculiar
lilt, obviously not from around here.
“You’re a quiet one,” she said, turning to face the tall,
gangly figure who’d snuck up on her. Abigail was proud that she had kept her
acute hearing into her elder years while she had to shout at most of her
friends, couldn’t fathom why she didn’t hear a car come up her drive or
footsteps on the gravel. “Can I help you?” As much accusation as question. She
assumed this was one more lost tourist, reduced to asking directions of a local
because his GPS app was off-line.
The spinyspindly maybe-man - a closer look left her still
not quite certain of the gender - said, “VonTrier. I reserved your room.”
Abigail remembered the name because it was odd. “Yes,” she
agreed, “Wendl. You’re set for the week.” She subjected him to a frank
inspection. How did he get here? I didn’t hear a car because there isn’t any.
“Luggage?” She wouldn’t rent a room for a week to a man without luggage, and
started to tell Wendl VonTrier precisely that.
“Here,” he said, lofting his suitcase as if it were empty.
Abigail wondered how she’d missed it. It was almost as if it
didn’t exist before she named it.
She dropped her trimmings into the basket at her feet, waved
her knife in the air, “I’ll show you,” she said, remembering to smile.
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REVIEW
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Henry Mitchell reads
and writes in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.
He has written five
novels and two collections of short stories.
Amazon
Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Henry-Mitchell/e/B00GZC7YWE/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_ebooks_1
Website:
http://henrymitchellbooks.com
Blog: https://droversgap.blogspot.com/
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