C.J. Tudor

  Un orășel cu un trecut întunecat... Și un prezent primejdios.

  Cu cinci sute de ani în urmă, opt martiri au fost arși pe rug.

  Cu treizeci de ani în urmă, două adolescente au dispărut.

  Cu două luni în urmă, un vicar a murit în mod misterios.

  Bine ați venit în Chapel Croft! Reverendul Jack Brooks și fiica lui adolescentă, Flo, ajung aici sperând într-un nou început. Numai că membrii micuței comunități sunt superstițioși, nu au deloc încredere în străini și ascund cu încăpățânare secrete vechi.

  Încă din prima zi, pastorul își dă seama că trebuie să afle răspunsuri la niște întrebări de-a dreptul înfricoșătoare: de ce nu i-a spus nimeni că fostul prelat s-a sinucis? De ce are fiica sa viziuni cu fete care ard? Cine îi trimite mesaje de amenințare?

  Fantomele trecutului au de rezolvat răfuieli vechi și nu-și pot găsi odihna. Iar Jack le stă în cale...

Fetele care ard

Clara Gauthier

Why do we hate our girls so much that history echoes with their screams and the earth is pitted with their unmarked graves?

Aimee :)

Belief should be a conscious choice, not something you're brainwashed into when you're too young to understand or question it. Faith isn't something you pass down like an heirloom.

I's not tangible or absolute. Not even for a priest. It's something you have to keep working at, like marriage or children.

You have wobbles. Naturally. Bad things happen. Things that make you question whether there is a God and, if there is, why he's such a bastard. But the truth is, bad things do not happen because of God.

"You think that's why he committed suicide?'

No.?' Her milky eyes glint and I understand two things - Joan did not leave her coat in the chapel by mistake. And I am in more trouble than I thought.

I grab my keys and walk along the narrow path from the cottage to the chapel, torch trained in front of me. A small inner voice tuts that this is exactly the sort of thing people in horror films do. Stupid people who inevitably die in gruesome ways before the titles kick in. I try to ignore that voice.

I wonder why authors' photos always make them seem so smug. Look, I wrote a book. Aren't I clever?

"Why? What did you think I was going to do?' 

‘Perhaps that's what weirdos like me do, right?'

He stares at her from under his long fringe, eyes unread-able. Then he grins. 'If I really wanted to murder you, I wouldn't have told you about the well.'

She lets her hands fall. 'Go fuck yourself.’

He grins. 'Bitch.' And pulls the trigger.

The fat priest had told him what he wanted to know pretty quickly. He couldn't really remember now why he felt the need to keep hitting him so much and so hard. Maybe it was the way the priest looked at him; the way he told him softly that he forgave him for his sins. Perhaps it had reminded him a little too much of his mother.

Who is the best on-screen devil? Al Pacino or Jack Nicholson?'

I smile. ‘Who says the devil has to be a man?'

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