The subsequent pages are partial excerpts from the journal of H. J. Thomas, dated back to the mid-1860s. Mr. Thomas’ bones were stumbled upon by . . .
Nowhere, that’s where I was driving. I had no home, no place to go, just the solitude of the road as my companion. I’d done . . .
Charlie wiped his brow as thunder rolled in the distance. A symphony of raindrops fell on the crops, and darkness washed over the farm as . . .
On the main street of the small town of Quarterhour, at the only butcher shop in town, a line of people extended from the glass . . .
Three hundred and twenty years have passed since my father kicked the crate: the crate that held Margaret Bingham, an accused Salem witch. I will . . .