If he could simply grasp one tiny recollection from that night, it would be like getting a fingerhold under the seam of this black shroud, and he could tear it away a little at a time.

Two days had passed since she’d first heard the rumors about Tom’s motel, and Lauren still hadn’t gotten a believable explanation. She’d been told by several people . . . about the deaths associated with room six, but Lauren could scarcely imagine Tom believed that the room was cursed.

Cottonwood leaves blanketed the corpse in a steady rain of yellow.

He dragged piles of old furniture, books, and all manner of unwanted items, some as old as the house itself, into a large heap . . . where he set fire to everything. Inside, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and stood at the window, watching the fire. His sheep came to the fence and watched too.