Bogeyman

Bogeyman
Gayle Wilson

A year after the death of her husband, Blythe Wyndham moves with her four-year-old daughter, Maddie, back to the small town where she grew up.But soon after they move in to their new home, strange things begin to happen. Maddie has disturbingly intense nightmares—so intense that Blythe fears one night she may not be able to awaken her daughter. A psychologist explains that Maddie's dreams are simply the result of her father's death, but Blythe knows something else is wrong. Because she's also heard the ghostly tapping at her daughter's window….Convinced the house is haunted, Blythe researches the town's history and discovers that a little girl had been brutally murdered in the area twenty-five years ago. Could there be some connection between this dead child and Maddie? With the help of Sheriff Cade Jackson, Blythe tries to separate past horrors from present dangers and struggles to distinguish the real from the imagined. But someone is clearly determined to keep a secret—and will kill again to do so.

Gayle Wilson

Bogeyman

This book is dedicated to the strongest, most wonderful group of women I know, with my love, my gratitude and my deepest admiration…

Jill, Kelley, Connie, Lisa, Michelle, Dorien, Peg, Linda, LJ, Karen, Sherry, Geralyn, Stef, Teresa, Diane, Nic, Donna, Julie and Allison.

Thank you for everything!

And a very special dedication to Angelon.

She knows all the reasons why.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Coming Next Month

Prologue

Twenty-five Years Earlier…

She had known he would come tonight. In spite of the rain and the cold. In spite of her praying “Please, Jesus” over and over again since Rachel had turned out the light.

She listened, but there was no sound now except her sister’s breathing, slightly whistling on each slow intake of air. And the rain, of course, pelting down on the tin roof overhead.

It made enough noise to drown out anything else, she reassured herself. Whatever she thought she’d heard—

The sound came again, and this time there was no doubt what it was. She had anticipated this, dreaded it too many nights not to recognize that soft tapping on the glass.

She opened her eyes to the darkness, staring up at the ceiling as if she could see through it to the storm above. Maybe if she waited—if she pretended to be asleep—maybe this time Rachel would hear him and wake up. Or maybe Mama would get up to check and see if they were warm enough.

The tapping came again. Louder. Demanding.