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A battalion of crickets fell silent, all at once.

An instant later, the front door of the house banged open. I darted to the nearest tree and pressed my body into its trunk. The man stood on the front porch scanning the darkness.

I held my breath until I heard the front door close. Then I sprinted the rest of the way until I got to the rusted ladder leaning against the back of the house. Right where I'd left it. I climbed to the top of the ladder and slid open the unlocked window. I hoisted myself onto the windowsill and eased one leg into the dark bedroom. Straddling the windowsill felt like sitting on the blade of a knife.

I stretched one leg down to the dresser under the window, but something tugged on my other foot. My shoelace was caught in the hinge of the ladder.


I tried to shake my foot loose, but the ladder swung awkwardly from the end of my shoelace. It slammed against the wood siding, the lace snapped, and I tumbled into the house.

A second later, the overhead light switched on. I squinted in the glare. I was sprawled on the floor between the dresser and the bed. Hide the wig! I tugged off my short mousy brown wig and tossed it under the bed.

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My strawberry-blonde ponytail spilled down my back as I sat up. Don't shoot. He held a metal baseball bat like he was staring down a fastball. He gaped at me and lowered the bat. You know how the front door sticks. He got a good look at my outfit. I steeled myself for his reaction. Work clothes. My boss Justine made us wear these red short skirts trimmed with white fake fur for the Christmas party we worked that night. He stared at me slack-jawed. At eight bucks an hour, I couldn't afford it.

Working for the Dolls was much more lucrative. Only-I hadn't exactly told him about it yet. Think of it as a uniform. I wear one to school.

Did you drive tonight? Especially on a school night. And you know what'll happen then. My GPA is amazing. And I'm on vacation after tomorrow, remember? I wound it tight around my palm until my fingers turned white.

The wind picked up outside. Frigid air blew through the open window. He walked over to it and slammed it shut.

I shrugged. We had nothing to steal except dusty car racing trophies and bad memories. I tossed my sneakers into the corner, stood up, and pushed past him to get a nightgown out of a drawer.

I need something to live on at college, right? He'd raised it from an F. Don't stay up and study. I still had to finish French and review calculus. I was so tired that the list of grammar rules blurred in my AP French notebook: The French author uses the subjunctive when: The action is in doubt or is uncertain. The desired purpose or end may never be met.

When you are searching for something, or someone, who may not exist. I could write my whole life story in the French subjunctive. In the reflection of my dark computer screen, something sparkled behind me.

The air in my bedroom suddenly felt electric. I held my breath and turned in my chair. Moonlight glinted on the thick curved glass of the snow globe on my dresser.

It had been sitting in the same spot, collecting dust, for years. When we made the move to the Crawford Estate when I was eleven, it stayed behind, keeping watch over my room. The glittery "snow" in the globe swirled around the tiny ice skater on the tiny pond in front of the tiny New York City skyline. But the snow was only supposed to swirl when you shake it. You're tired. It's nothing. I turned back to my desk. There was a sharp sound behind me. Like a steel brush scraping bone.

Valley Of The Dolls [EPUB]

The air seemed to vibrate with a strange energy. I was paralyzed, unable to move or breathe. I forced myself to turn around again. My snow globe had fallen off the dresser and broken open like an egg. Its liquid guts spilled out all over the worn wooden floor.

Icy threads of terror laced my heart and pulled tight. My skin wanted to slither off my body and scoot out of the room, but I made myself stand up and walk toward the mess. Thick shards of broken glass and silvery white glitter splattered the floor in wet heaps. Ribbons of water spread out in the grooves of the wide oak planks. The thickest rivulet disappeared, as though an invisible straw was sucking it up. My eyes followed it. The water wasn't disappearing-it was trickling through a crack in the old floor.

But it wasn't a crack. It was a hole, no bigger around than a pencil.

I stuck the tip of my finger into it and pulled. A two-foot plank of oak lifted up, like it was on hinges. I set it to the side and peered inside the gaping hole in my bedroom floor. The hidden space was about six inches deep and extended under the floor into darkness. A puddle of glittery snow-globe water pooled where it had dripped through the hole. I grabbed an old t-shirt from my dirty laundry pile and mopped up the mess. My hand strayed into the dark space under the next plank and brushed against something.

I braced myself, ready to leap out of the way if it was something horrible. Once my dad found a possum living under the house.

I didn't need to see any beady little eyes peeping up at me. I reached in and pulled out a small book wearing a thick sweater of dust. I wiped it clean with the damp t-shirt and saw that there were faded gold words embossed into the pale pink leather: My Diary I could suddenly smell my mother's perfume.

The touch of her hand on mine. The sense memory was vivid and intense, and I pushed my fists into my eyes to cauterize the tears.

Was this her diary? But if it is Porlock, then it must be something of the very first importance. In a former letter he frankly informed me that the name was not his own, and defied me ever to trace him among the teeming millions of this great city. Porlock is important, not for himself, but for the great man with whom he is in touch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish with the shark, the jackal with the lion—anything that is insignificant in companionship with what is formidable: not only formidable, Watson, but sinister—in the highest degree sinister.

That is where he comes within my purview. You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty? A distinct touch! But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law—and there lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that's the man!

But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that for those very words that you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year's pension as a solatium for his wounded character.

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Is he not the celebrated author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific press capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce? Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor—such would be your respective roles!A series of nature sketches, whose topics range from muskrats building for winter to buzzards nesting in the swamp, written in a way that encourages in the reader the habit of close observation.

Found you!

The Valley of Fear by Arthur Conan Doyle

Found you! After Madame Ambrose shut out the world and locked herself away in the vast apartment on Fifth Avenue. Severine Tremblay had been in service to Madame Georgette Ambrose, last of the Gilded Age heiresses, for twenty-five years. August 12,

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