The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5
The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5

The Paupers' Crypt: Moving In Series Book 5

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Trapped in an icy fog with no escape but a crypt ruled by a malevolent spirit...

Brian Roy, ghostbuster extraordinaire, is forced to admit the chills and thrills of his career are taking a toll on his bad ticker. To save his life, he takes a no-stress job as Superintendent of Woods Cemetery and can’t be happier … until dead people – angry dead people – rear their grisly heads and grasping hands, pulling him back into his old job!

Brian’s first day quickly goes downhill when fog descends like an icy fortress, separating him from the outside world. Caught between a rock and a tombstone, he takes refuge in his office and learns there may be one way out. The crypt.

Ruled by a malevolent spirit, the crypt and its undead residents are determined to make Brian their latest victim. When Brian’s wife, Jenny, learns what’s happening, she takes matters into her own hands. With the help of a ghost hunter, Jenny goes after her husband. But, nothing – absolutely nothing – can prepare them for the horrors they’ll face!

AUDIO LENGTH 7 hours and 05 minutes
PRODUCT DIMENSION 6 x 0.46 x 9 inches
ISBN 979-8-89476-015-5

Chapter 5: The Call, 7:50 AM, May 2nd, 2016

Brian stood still and hoped he wouldn’t faint. His blood pressure had dropped, and his lungs seemed empty of oxygen. And even as he was able to realize and comprehend all of it, the voice continued to speak. The terrible, hideous voice of nightmares.

“Hello, Mr. Roy.” The voice was cold and hard, it grated on the nerves and reminded Brian of every bad dream and horrific experience he had ever suffered. It was worse than nails on a chalkboard, worse than the screams of a dying man.

Brian’s hands shook.

“I can almost smell your fear through the phone lines,” the voice whispered. Brian couldn’t tell if the speaker was male or female. “You’re terrified. And you should be. You’re not supposed to be here.

“Woods Cemetery doesn’t need a caretaker, or anyone else,” the voice continued.

“We’ll leave then,” Brian managed to whisper hoarsely.

“Oh no,” the voice said, chuckling. “It’s far too late for leaving. You should never have come. Be careful out there, Mr. Roy, the fog is getting thicker.” And the call ended.

Brian’s mouth was dry as he hung up the phone. He looked out the window and saw the speaker had told him the truth.

Anything beyond the iron fence was hidden by the fog. His world had been shrunk to the size of the cemetery. The fog formed a barrier which followed the lines and angles of the cemetery’s border with a sinister intelligence.

“John,” Brian said, and he looked over at the older man.

For the first time, Brian noticed the huge scar on the right side of John’s face. A mass of twisted and cratered flesh which consumed the entire cheek and part of the forehead. The man’s short silver hair was swept back, and the right eye was a dark, red globe.

John smiled sardonically and nodded his head. “Just saw it?”

“I did,” Brian confessed. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse, though. Did time as a forward observer. Saw a little combat.”

John nodded and stood up. “Bad call?” he asked.

Brian nodded. “Really bad. Let’s get out of here.”

“Lead the way,” John said, gesturing to the door. “Lead the way.”

With a sigh, Brian stepped over to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the cold air. His breath rushed out in a great white cloud.

“Damn, it got cold,” John muttered.

“It’ll get colder,” Brian said, shutting the door. He turned to walk to the gate and stopped.

In horror, he watched as the gates slammed closed.

“What the …” John asked, confused. “How in the hell did they close themselves?”

Before Brian could offer up any sort of an answer, the rattle of the chain interrupted him. The heavy steel links which he had so carefully looped around the cross piece of the left gate, only an hour earlier, moved of its own accord.

He watched, stunned as it moved with all of the grace and ease of a serpent, slid around and through the bars before it finally found its own end. For a brief moment, the lock dangled, open and free, and then it snapped through the end link and closed upon itself. The ‘click’ of the tumblers was nearly smothered by the fog.

“Oh Christ, we’ll have to climb the fence,” John said.

Brian put his hand on the man’s arm, and when John looked at him, he shook his head.

“Why?” John asked.

“I don’t think it would be the best thing,” Brian answered, looking around. Shadows flickered in the headstones, shapes and figures. Darkness and flashes of white.

“Maybe not,” John said, “But I can’t stay here. Old as I am, I’ll try my luck,” John said, a note of stubbornness in his voice.

Brian dropped his hand and took a step back toward the safety of the office.

John looked around and then he walked forward. He passed close to an old and weathered headstone. The marker was slate, the inscription on it faded from centuries.

A hand, gray and foul to the eyes, shot out. The fingers were crooked, powerful and quick like a spider’s as they snatched at John’s leg.

Even as the dead thing latched onto the man, John let out a high pitched scream, one full of pain and terror.

Brian stepped forward, wary of his heart, and winced as John was pulled down. A second hand slipped out, met its mate and locked around the ankle. Again, John screamed, jerked his leg back and tried to free himself.

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