Free The Sisters: A Mystery of Good and Evil, Horror and Suspense (Book One of the Dark Forces Series) by Don Sloan Page A

hearth rug in front of Nathan’s fireplace. “Well,” Nathan said, as he threw another log on the fire, “we’ve been through papers as far back as 1880 and sifted out all the possibilities. I never knew Cape May had such a violent past.” They had been at it for more than two hours, reading the old papers and trying to draw a connection—any connection—between their experiences and the documents in Nathan’s attic.
    Sarah took a sip of hot tea and drew a pensive expression. “I suppose you could say that about any town of any size. Remember, we’re only looking for the articles on violent happenings. There have also been a lot of garden clubs and sappy accounts of visiting relatives.”
    “True,” he replied. He picked up one of the bundles and began untying the twine that held it together. “What seems funny to me is that none of these accounts bear much resemblance to your dreams, or to my weird experience. I think maybe we’re just chasing ghosts that don’t really exist.” He shrugged. “I’m no crime scene investigator or forensics specialist. I imagine if it comes to it we can remove a plank from your bathroom and have it analyzed. But right now, I don’t relish the idea of going into the local police station with a board in my hand and a wild story about a dream.” He smiled to soften the words.
    Sarah smiled back. “You’re right. Oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s finish this stack and then go to dinner. I’m starving.”
    “Sounds good. You take half and I’ll take half.”
    But they had not been skimming the contents of the papers―all from the 1920s and 30s―for very long when Sarah gasped and put a hand up to her mouth.  Without a word, she handed the paper’s obituary section to Nathan. There, side by side, were photos of Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Presbury, late of Philadelphia. The account made no mention whatsoever of the manner of death, and only went into detail about their families and burial arrangements. For a long moment, neither of them knew what to say. The date on the newspaper was May 23, 1925. Arnold had been born in 1888 in Philadelphia, and had worked as a trader in tobacco futures. Mrs. Presbury, who had been born Naomi Irene Thorndyke in 1890, was a homemaker who had apparently grown up in suburban Philadelphia, attending all the right prep schools for women of that era. They had two children, a son and daughter and no grandchildren at the time of death. Various other relations were mentioned, along with details of the interment in a Philadelphia cemetery. But nothing was said, either in that section or any other, about the cause of death.
    “Holy cow,” said Nathan. “You even had their names right. Sarah, how could you know this?”
    Sarah had gotten up and was warming her hands at the fire. “I’m not sure,” she said with sudden passion. “I have no earthly idea or explanation for it. But, Nathan, I was there. I was there when this man stabbed his wife in the temple and then finished killing himself. They were guests at my dinner party, for Christ’s sake!”
    Nathan crossed the room and put an arm around Sarah, who had begun shivering uncontrollably. “Listen, it was only your dinner party in a dream, remember? It’s not as though you were responsible for these deaths. We don’t even know for sure how the Presburys died. For all we know they died in a car accident or from a hundred other possible causes. My guess is that somewhere in that old house you ran across a reference to their names, maybe on a newspaper like this, or an old address book, probably on some other visit to the shore. I’m not saying you didn’t have the experience you had last night in your dream. All I’m saying is that there is a rational explanation for two people dying and the coincidence of your populating two people in your dream with the same last name. That name was buried someplace in your subconscious and you just happened to put it into place at the right