From the romantic thriller, ENDLESS NIGHT
Closing the trunk and hoisting it under her arm, she reached out to throw the latch open as the door ripped from her hands and the Atlantic screamed at her.
She screamed back.
Even with the collar pulled up over her ears, the sounds of the tempest assaulted her. In the wind, she heard the ghostly woman crying, the phantom that besieged her at night. Outside of Wakefield’s dark chambers, the cry took on a hollow sound, like a woeful moan meant to lure souls toward its source, the yawning black shadows beyond the cliff’s edge. Megan also heard the anxious murmur of ice and snow, like a thousand voices whispering about her, berating her, cajoling her. Amidst their dissonance, one voice broke through.
Her body jerked and the radio fell to the ground. It wasn’t the storm that called her name. She spun around and instinctively crouched, prepared to attack, but she did not have her trusty GLOCK. She had nothing but her bare hands and a flashlight.
“Margaret,” that chilled voice called again.
Megan whirled and saw his outline. Night swelled into the menacing form of a man. There were no distinct features, only a shadow—a frightening profile that looked as if the storm had taken its vivacity and breathed life into this very monster.