Blake Hollow Barn Novels & Stories

Her arms loosened before her, the item starting to peek out as if it wanted to fall out. Blackwheel hissed as he saw the inappropriate need to hide again even though he knew it was going to take some time for him to reach Rebecca, more time than he had expected. Forty feet away from Rebecca and the voices of the children in the kindergarten died down. The air became clearer and noiseless as Blackwheel watched Rebecca approach a building that was covered with brown painting. It looked like a coffee store but it wasn't. "The place where your dreams come to life," Blackwheel read the sign close to the building and exhaled.

Blake wanting to come into the house, “you wouldn’t let me have a little look around just to be sure your telling me the truth? My brother is pretty cut up about his daughter going missing. If she is here, you shouldn’t believe anything she says, she’d say wild things to get out of telling the truth. Once accused her own brother of raping her just because she was being spiteful.” Robin, “well that’s awful but I assure you, she ain’t here. And no, you can’t come up round my homestead wanting to poke your nose around. For all I know you could be one of those city folk buying up all the properties around here for your fancy lodges. Hell this story of yours could be a load of hog wash and your j

But on the page it’s flat and dead, like some map to Marlowe’s mind. “Why are you showing me this?” I ask. “Look closely,” he says, tapping the picture with his finger. After a few seconds of staring, I see. If you didn’t examine it closely, you’d never notice it. In the lines that form the crags of the rocks lies a hidden image: the barn at Frank’s horse farm. * * *

A massive field of grain stretched out before him, the stalks swaying gently in a breeze that did not feel like a threat. A few yards away stood a large wooden barn. The scent of horses and old hay drifted from its open doors. In the center of the clearing sat a small, circular hut made of stone. Sloane tried to reach for his knife but his hands were heavy. He looked at the Shackle on his wrist. The gold was dim, cold, exhausted. The effort of the blast had drained it. The numbers were still frozen, but the light that usually pulsed beneath them was gone.

Philosophies he’d struggled to understand from the start. But as he’d examined his pictures, nothing clicked. Not the water flowing under Black Creek Bridge, or the abandoned factory on Black River, or the bandstand next to Raedeker Park Zoo. Every. Single. Picture. Sucked. Except one. Something in it caught his eye. He’d taken it only a moment ago, of an old Victorian farmhouse everyone in Clifton Heights called Bassler House. It was in the middle of a fallow cornfield. He’d snapped several wide angles, then on a whim zoomed in on the front door and the window next to it. He snapped the shot instinctively.