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Something's Not Right With Lucy von Taylor, Dawn (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 30.01.2018
  • Verlag: BookBaby
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Something's Not Right With Lucy

'Something's Not Right with Lucy,' is a psychological thriller. Seven-year-old Lucy is harboring a secret. Only one person knows the trauma the child has suffered and he isn't talking. While her parents dismiss Lucy's nightmares and the images she claims to see, her increasing disturbing behavior worries her teacher, Miss Harding. Finding the appropriate help is not an easy task in this small Midwest town, where everyone's selfish agendas don't include treating the troubled child. Can Lucy's teacher get the help her student so desperately needs or is it already too late?

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 292
    Erscheinungsdatum: 30.01.2018
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9780999615416
    Verlag: BookBaby
    Größe: 347kBytes
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Something's Not Right With Lucy

CHAPTER 1 The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the little girl's bicycle as she rode onto the Campbell's property. The rear wheel's wobbling made it difficult to maintain steadiness, but the real threat to her balance was her feet slipping from the pedals. Fright, not fatigue, had transformed her legs into jelly. Her classmates had warned her that the old man was scary; they called him the Bike Boogeyman. Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid . Carol Anne had not planned to arrive alone. Her mother had left early for her second job, and her best friend, Sarah, was ill. With no other options, she gripped the handlebars tighter and pressed ahead. The worn tire had deflated, forcing her to push her bicycle the remaining distance to the garage. Two girls, in a nearby yard, bounced a vinyl ball. Their carefree laughter indicated no fear of the Boogeyman. Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid . She passed a bungalow with random patches of white paint clinging to the gray weathered siding. The windows, framed with faded-green shutters, stared outwardly like a pair of lifeless eyes. If not for the porch light burning needlessly in the daylight, she would have assumed the house was vacant. She poked her head into the open garage door. "Hey." The cluttered interior surprised her. Automobile and bicycle parts lay scattered among red gas cans. A steel workbench, partially hidden under piles of greasy rags, lined the east wall. A commercial-grade ceiling light, with neglected, burned-out bulbs, cast shadows of coldness upon the walls. An old man rested in a tattered chair in the corner. A wisp of cigarette smoke encircled his head like a spectral halo. "Hey, you," she repeated. Al Campbell glanced at a child in the doorway. The contrast of sunlight against the dimness of the shop's interior made it impossible for him to identify the form as a boy or a girl. "Hey, what?" He tossed the magazine upon the workbench. Acrid vapors escaped from the white rings of perspiration etched into the fabric of his shirt. His matching trousers, embedded with grease, added a stiffness to his gait. "What the hell you want?" Carol Anne jumped and she crashed her bicycle, scraping a deep gash across her foot. The old man's yelling frightened her more than the blood seeping into her sandal. "My bike. The tire-" Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid . He crushed his cigarette with his worn black boot and hacked a long, wet cough. "Where is it?" Carol Anne pointed. The Bike Boogeyman stunk like boiled cabbage. She pinched her nose as he inspected the bicycle's condition. "Needs an inner tube. C'mere while I find one." She followed his rancid odor but remained close to the door. The old mechanic rummaged through three boxes at his workbench until he found the proper-sized tube. "Here's one." He removed the tire and replaced the tube, as he had done thousands of times. Carol Anne stepped forward as he swung the frame into an upright position. He reached into his soiled shirt pocket for a cigarette. With a crusty handkerchief, he wiped sweat from his temples. "Got money?" She stared at the congealing blood on her foot. "Got money?" Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid . "Forgot." "Well, I sure as hell don't work for free, ya know." The eight-year-old tugged at her shirt, wringi

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