19 Marigold Lane


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 19 Marigold Lane by R.M. Gilmore
 © 2019 R.M. Gilmore All rights reserved.
 No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
 Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.
 This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
 Thank you for respecting the unique work of the author by adhering to federal copyright laws and purchasing your own copy of this work. 
 Editor: Becky Johnson
 Design: RMGraphX
 MacGilleMhur Publishing
 
 
 table of contents
 acknowledgements
 1
 2
 3
 4
 5
 6
 7
 8
 9
 10
 11
 12
 13
 14
 15
 16
 17
 18
 19
 20
 resources
 about r.m. gilmore
 
 
 For Alysa.
 There. Now, shut up.
 
 
 acknowledgements
 Four years in the making, this book would not have been possible without my usual band of misfits.
 Thanks to Ravin Maurice for being the best book babe a little writer could ask for. I couldn’t do it without you. Becky, you know you’re a queen. All the ladies over at Hot Tree Editing, you’re my rock stars.
 As always, my sincere gratitude goes out to Stacey and her family. Thanks for sharing your journey with me. You gave Prudence, and her mom, a palpable heartbeat.
 And helping to make this story as factual as fiction will allow, Shannon Pell, attorney, Jennifer Pell, RN, and Casey Oliver, wrongful conviction advocate, and law student.
 Kage… you’re still pretty much my favorite animal.
 The kid, this one’s for you. Happy now?
 All my weirdos reading these lines, itching inside for more of your particular brand of strange, on with the show!
 
 
 1
 Light shifted over miscellaneous shapes and figures in the dark as a bare bulb swung overhead. Everything about the space was equally foreign and familiar. Dark, dank, musty. Dirt floor. Basement. But it wasn’t my basement. Vomit bobbed in my throat and I swallowed it back. Not my basement. His.
 Shelves of boxes and other basement things lined two of the four walls. To my right, the stairs that led to the foyer. Behind me, was him. I didn’t want to turn around. I’d seen only a glimpse of what lay inside the alcove in the far wall, and I damn sure didn’t want another look.
 I fought, screamed at my muscles to behave, but my feet moved against my will, slowly turning my body to face the hole. Fear closed my eyes, but the deed had been done. I didn’t have to see to know I was now facing the little dead thing head-on. Opening them meant seeing him. Really seeing him. In the swinging light, shadows cast over flesh-free bones and decaying roses. I refused; eyes clamped tight.
 My lids took on a life of their own and popped open. “No,” I cried and clapped my hands over my eyes. “No.”
 “Look,” a screeching old harpy demanded from somewhere unseen.
 I gasped and jerked away from her voice. Instinctively, my hands moved away from my eyes, and I scanned the space for her. Mommy Dearest. Mother. She was nowhere to be seen.
 Hands clenched into fists, on the defensive, I waited for her straggly head to pop up from nowhere like a textbook villain. The bulb swung and the light shifted. He was there. My wide eyes locked on and refused to look away.
 My worst nightmare appeared there in vivid color. All reds and browns. Even in the sporadic light, the highlights and shadows contrasted each other, popping from the alcove in a three-dimensional illusion.
 No, not an illusion. Reality. Fifteen-year-old bones clattered from the child-size space in the wall. A small hand, all tiny bones, reached out for me. Too scared to move, I stood there. Frozen.
 What did he want from me? What did any living dead thing want? Retribution? Vengeance? My eternal soul? Help? How could I help him? He was already dead. I couldn’t bring him back. His murderer was in jail and would, hopefully, stay there until she was rickety old bones herself. 
 Tattered fabric hung from his shoulders and around his ribs. The scene was horrendous—equally terrifying and heart-wrenching—but there I stood. Helpless.
 Andrew’s decayed body crawled slowly toward me, dragging roses, old and new, under his tiny frame.
 Tears flowed down my cheeks. “What do you want?” He reached, inches from me. “Andrew, how can I help you?” He reached, begging me in silence for help.
 I extended my arm and touched my warm fingers to his boney tips. A flash of white and the dead boy was full of life and color. A teeny version of my odd boy. All pale skin and floppy black hair. His dark eyes stared up at me.
 The bulb swung and light glistened on the endless black pools of his eyes, giving them life that shouldn’t have been there.
 “Andrew,” I breathed.
 His black eyes locked onto mine, he pleaded, “Save me.”
 A clambering thump shook the basement in a world-bending quake. My body jerked and my limbs flailed in retaliation. My lungs caught air and I pulled in a painful breath. My eyes flew open, and I blinked against offending brightness.
 “Shit.”
 I should have been used to seeing Andrew Shooster in my nightmares, but every morning was like the first.
 My Rubik’s Cube alarm clock glowed green numbers at me. I scowled and flipped the covers over my head.
 The familiar sound of Cassius’s long limbs scaling the trellis had penetrated my walls