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A's in every subject at college and thus she's every XXX Apartments Episode 6 - The Millionaire Next Door [Book]ppti.info - ppti.info "Introduction to The Girl Next Door" Stephen King This book is a work of fiction. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in. A Girl Next Door. Read more · Girl Next Door · Read more · Girl Next Door. Read more · Guns and the Girl Next Door · Read more.

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Download The Girl Next Door free in PDF & EPUB format. Download Augusta Huiell Seaman's The Girl Next Door for your kindle, tablet, IPAD. A teenage girl is held captive and brutally tortured by neighborhood children. Based on a true story, this shocking novel reveals the depravity of which we are all. The Girl Next Door is a mystery novel written by Augusta Huiell Seaman an American author of Children literature, who penned many mystery & adventure.

And I'm your best friend! I wanted to tell you; I didn't want to write it. You can't very well tell secrets when you're sight-seeing, you know! You know we've solemnly promised never to have any secrets from each other, and yet you've had one two whole months? It didn't begin till quite a while after I came; in fact, not till about three or four weeks ago.

Through the warm darkness of the June night came the hum of a great city, a subdued, murmurous sound, strangely unfamiliar to one of the girls, who was in the city for the first time in all her country life.

To the other the sound had some time since become an accustomed one. Old age is a recurrent theme in the novel. Not that he gives a damn about what anyone makes of this.

Critical Reception It was noted that instead of focusing on the crime, the novel dealt with the lives of the now elderly people in the present. Conclusion The Girl Next Door is billed as a murder-mystery novel that ends up turning into a lovely study in aging, friendships, and loyalty.

Nearly 60 years ago, a group of children discovered an abandoned tunnel system and made a vow to keep "the quants," as they called them, them their secret play area. The tunnels become their meeting spot, a haven where no adults entered and they play games, tell stories, and sometimes cook meals in a makeshift oven. They have everything they need, until a parent catches them and forbids the children to ever enter the tunnels again. Flash forward sixty years to a new housing development and the tunnels, along with a box containing the bones of two hands, being discovered.

Because of the hands discovery, one male and one female, a police investigation is initiated which reunites the group of old friends. The relationships between the group of now-adult children is truly the crux of this novel, not the mystery or the investigation. Old flames are rekindled, new relationships are formed, and the characters reminisce, with sometimes questionable detail, the summer of the tunnels. Most characters are well drawn, detailed, and believable not always sympathetic, but they don't need to be , but I had a difficult time keeping them all straight until I was over halfway through the novel.

And this is the type of interwoven story that needs its reader to keep everyone straight. The investigation occasionally crops up, but very early into the book the reader knows who the murder is so it doesn't follow the traditional trajectory of keeping the reader in the dark, which I found refreshing. The Girl Next Door is a good psychological study in human relationships, but I had a difficult time getting past my expectations of a mystery-thriller and keeping straight the cast of characters.

Mystery Fiction Mystery fiction is a genre of fiction usually involving a mysterious death or a crime to be solved.

Often with a closed circle of suspects, each suspect is usually provided with a credible motive and a reasonable opportunity for committing the crime. The central character oftentimes will be a detective who eventually solves the mystery by logical deduction from facts presented to the reader. Sometimes mystery books are nonfictional.

Mystery fiction can be contrasted with hardboiled detective stories, which focus on action and gritty realism.

Mystery fiction may involve a supernatural mystery where the solution does not have to be logical, and even no crime involved. This usage was common in the pulp magazines of the s and s, where titles such as Dime Mystery, Thrilling Mystery and Spicy Mystery offered what at the time were described as "weird menace" stories—supernatural horror in the vein of Grand Guignol.

This contrasted with parallel titles of the same names which contained conventional hardboiled crime fiction. The first use of "mystery" in this sense was by Dime Mystery, which started out as an ordinary crime fiction magazine but switched to "weird menace" during the later part of Beginning The genre of mystery novels is a young form of literature that has developed since the early- 19th century.

The rise of literacy began in the years of the English Renaissance and, as people began to read over time, they became more individualistic in their thinking.

As people became more individualistic in their thinking, they developed a respect for human reason and the ability to solve problems. Perhaps a reason that mystery fiction was unheard of before the s was due in part to the lack of true police forces. Before the Industrial Revolution, many of the towns would have constables and a night watchman at best. Naturally, the constable would be aware of every individual in the town, and crimes were either solved quickly or left unsolved entirely.

Wilkie Collins' epistolary novel The Woman in White was published in , while The Moonstone is often thought to be his masterpiece.

In Arthur Conan Doyle introduced Sherlock Holmes, whose mysteries are said to have been singularly responsible for the huge popularity in this genre. The genre began to expand near the turn of century with the development of dime novels and pulp magazines.

Books were especially helpful to the genre, with many authors writing in the genre in the s. An important contribution to mystery fiction in the s was the development of the juvenile mystery by Edward Stratemeyer. Dixon and Carolyn Keene pseudonyms respectively and were later written by his daughter, Harriet Adams, and other authors. The s also gave rise to one of the most popular mystery authors of all time, Agatha Christie, whose works include Murder on the Orient Express , Death on the Nile , and the world's best-selling mystery And Then There Were None The massive popularity of pulp magazines in the s and s increased interest in mystery fiction.

Pulp magazines decreased in popularity in the s with the rise of television so much that the numerous titles available then are reduced to two today: Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.

The raid took maybe half an hour.

The capture could take all day. At the very least, it was scary. Eddie, of course, got away with murder. Half the time you were afraid to capture him. He could turn on you, break the rules, and The Game would become a bloody, violent free for-all.

Or if you did catch him there was always the problem of how to let him go. If you'd done anything to him he didn't like it was like setting free a swarm of bees.

Not at first. At first it was the same as always. I Everybody took turns and you got yours and I got mine except there was this girl there. But then we started pretending we had to be nice to her. Instead of taking turns we'd let her be whatever she wanted to be. Because she was new to The Game, because she was a girl. And she started pretending to have this obsession with getting all of us before we got her. Like it was a challenge to her. Every day was finally going to be the day she won at Commando.

We knew it was impossible. She was a lousy shot for one. Denise never won at Commando. She was twelve years old. She had curly brown-red hair and her skin was lightly freckled all over. She had the small beginnings of breasts, and thick pale prominent nipples.

I thought of all that now and fixed my eyes on the truck, on the workers and the girders. But Denise wouldn't leave it alone. She knew damn well why we didn't play but she was right too in a way-what had stopped The Game was nothing more than that the weather had gotten too cold.

That and the guilt of course.

She shrugged. And maybe you guys are chicken. I've got an idea, though. Why don't you ask your brother if he's chicken. The sky was growing darker. The men certainly thought so. Along with the girders they were hauling out canvas tarps, spreading them out in the grass just in case.

They were working fast, trying to get the big wheel assembled before the downpour. I recognized one of them from last summer, a wiry blond southerner named Billy Bob or Jimmy Bob something who had handed Eddie a cigarette he asked for. That alone made him memorable. Now he was hammering pieces of the wheel together with a large ball-peen hammer, laughing at something the fat man said beside him.

The laugh was high and sharp, almost feminine. You could hear the ping of the hammer and the trucks' gears groaning behind us, you could hear generators running and the grinding of machinery-and then a sudden staccato pop, rain falling hard into the field's dry hard-packed dirt. Cheryl and Denise were already running for the trees. I My house was closer than theirs. I didn't really mind the rain. But it was a good excuse to get out of there for a while.

Away from Denise.

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I just couldn't believe she wanted to talk about The Game. You could see the rain wouldn't last. It was coming down too fast, too heavily. Maybe by the time it was over some of the other kids would be hanging around.

I could lose her. I ran past them huddled beneath the trees "Going home! Denise's hair was plastered down over her cheeks and forehead.

She was smiling again. Her shirt was soaked clear through. That long bony wet arm dangling. I pretended I didn't hear. The rain was pretty loud over there in the leaves.

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I figured Cheryl would get over it. I kept running. Denise and Eddie, I thought. What a pair. If anybody is ever gonna get me into trouble it'll be them.

One or the other or both of them. It's got to be. Ruth was on the landing taking in the mail from her mailbox as I ran past her house. She turned in the doorway and smiled and waved to me, as water cascaded down the eaves. I never learned what bad feeling had come between Ruth and my mother but something had when I was eight or nine.

Before that, long before Meg and Susan came along I used to sleep over nights with Donny and Willie and Woofer in the double set of bunk beds they had in their room.

Willie had a habit of leaping into bed at night so he'd destroyed a few bunks over the years. Willie was always flinging himself on something. When he was two or three, Ruth said, he'd destroyed his crib completely. The kitchen chairs were all unhinged from his sprawling. But the bunks they had in the bedroom now were tough. They'd survived. Since whatever happened between Ruth and my mother I was allowed to stay there only infrequently.

But I remember those earlier nights when we were kids. We'd cut up laughing in the dark for an hour or two whispering, giggling, spitting over the sides at whoever was on the bottom bunks and then Ruth would come in and yell and we'd go to sleep. The nights I liked best were Karnival nights. From the open bedroom window facing the playground we could hear calliope music, screams, the whir and grind of machinery.

The sky was orange-red as though a forest fire were raging, punctuated by brighter reds and blues as the Octopus whirled just out of sight behind the trees. We knew what was out there-we had just come back from there after all, our hands still sticky from cotton candy. But somehow it was mysterious to lie listening, long past our bedtime, silent for once, envying adults and teenagers, imagining the terrors and thrills of the big rides we were too young to go on that were getting all those screams.

Until the sounds and lights slowly faded away, replaced by the laughter of strangers as they made their way back to cars all up and down our block. I swore that when I got older enough I'd be the last one to leave. And now I was standing alone at the refreshment booth eating my third hot dog of the evening and wondering what the hell to do with myself. I'd ridden all the rides I cared to.

I'd lost money at every game and wheel of fortune the place had to offer and all I had was one tiny ceramic poodle for my mother shoved in my pocket to show for it. I'd had my candy apple, my Sno-Cone and my slice of pizza. It was fun, but now there was just me.

It was ten o'clock. And two hours yet to go. But Donny and Willie Jr. It was odd because Ruth was usually very big on Karnival. I thought of going across the street to see what was what but that would mean admitting I was bored and I wasn't ready to do that yet. I decided I'd wait a while.

Ten minutes later Meg arrived. I was trying my luck on number seven red and considering a second candy apple when I saw her walk slowly through the crowd, alone, wearing jeans and a bright green blouse-and suddenly I didn't feel so shy anymore.

That I didn't feel shy amazed me. Maybe by then I was ready for anything. I waited until I lost on the red again and went over. And then it was as though I was interrupting something. She was staring up at the Ferris wheel, fascinated, brushing back a lock of long red hair with her fingers. I saw something glint on her hand as it dropped to her side. It was a pretty fast wheel. Up top the girls were squealing.

She looked at me and smiled and said, "Hi, David. You could tell she'd never been on one before. Just the way she stared. What kind of life was that? I wondered. It's faster than most are. She looked at me again, all excited. Faster than the one at Playland, anyway. Faster than Bertram's Island. Privately I agreed with her. There was a smooth easy a glide to the wheel I'd always liked, a simplicity of purpose and design that the scary rides lacked.

I couldn't have stated it then but I'd always thought the wheel was graceful, romantic. I "Want to try?

What was I. The girl was older than me. Maybe as much as three years older. I was crazy, j I tried to backtrack. Maybe I'd confuse her. If you're scared to. I don't mind. I felt the knife-point lift away from my throat. She took my hand and led me over.

Somehow I bought us tickets and we stepped into a car and sat down. All I remember is the feel of her hand, warm and dry in the cool night air, the fingers slim and strong. That and my bright-red cheeks reminding me I was twelve years old on the wheel with something very much like a full grown woman. I And then the old problem came up of what to say, while they loaded the rest of the cars and we rose to the top.

I solved it by saying nothing. That seemed fine with her. She didn't seem uncomfortable at all. Just relaxed and content to be up here looking down at the people and the whole Karnival spread around her strung with lights and up over the trees to our houses, rocking the car gently back and forth, smiling, humming a tune I didn't know.

Then the wheel began turning and she laughed and I thought it was the happiest, nicest sound I'd ever heard and felt proud of myself for asking her, for making her happy and making her laugh the way she did. As I say the wheel was fast and up at the top almost completely silent, all the noise of the Karnival held down below as though enveloped there, and you plunged down into it and then back out of it again, the noise receding quickly, and at the top you were almost weightless in the cool breeze so that you wanted to hold on to the crossbar for a moment for fear of.

I looked down to her hands on the bar and that was when I saw the ring. In the moonlight it looked thin and pale. It sparkled. I made a show of enjoying the view but mostly it was her smile and the excitement in her eyes I was enjoying, the way the wind pressed and fluttered the blouse across her breasts.

Then our ride was at its peak and the wheel turned faster, the airy sweeping glide at its most graceful and elegant and thrilling as I looked at her, her lovely open face rushing first through a frame of stars and then past the dark schoolhouse and then the pale brown tents of the Kiwanis, her hair blowing back and then forward over her flushed cheeks as we rose again, and I suddenly felt those first two or three years that she had lived and I hadn't like a terrible weighted irony, like a curse, and thought for a moment, it isn't fair.

I give her this but that's all and it's just not fair.

The feeling passed. By the time the ride was over and we waited near the top all that was left was the pleasure at how happy she looked.

And how alive. Sometimes you forget and it's as though they're on vacation or something and you think, gee, I wish they'd call. You miss them. You forget they're really gone. You forget the past six months even happened. Isn't that weird? Isn't that crazy? Then you catch yourself.. And they're always still alive in my dreams. We're happy. She smiled and shook her head. We were on the downside now, moving, only five or six cars ahead of us.

I saw the next group waiting to get on. I looked down over the bar and noticed Meg's ring again. She saw me looking. I'm not going to lose it. I'd never lose it. The wheel moved down again. Only two more cars to go. Time moved dreamlike for me, but even at that it moved too quickly. I hated to see it end. Not like home. Not the way it was. Ruth's kind of But I think she means well.

Though the comment about Ruth confused me. I remembered the reserve in her voice, the coldness that first day by the brook. We'd reached the bottom now. One of the carnies lifted the crossbar and held the car steady with his foot. I hardly noticed him. We stepped out. She said it almost in a whisper, like maybe she expected somebody to hear and then report to someone else-and as though we were confidants, equals, coconspirators.

In his day Willie Chandler Sr. Handy and a little paranoid. It was a room within a room, eight by ten feet wide and six feet high, modeled strictly according to government specifications.

You went down the stairs from their kitchen, walked past the paint cans stacked beneath the stairs and the sink and then the washer and dryer, turned a corner and walked through a heavy metal bolted door-originally the door to a meat locker-and you were inside a concrete enclosure at least ten degrees colder than the rest of the place, musty-smelling and dark. There were no electrical outlets and no light fixture.


Willie had nailed girders to the kitchen floor beams and supported them with thick wooden posts. He had sandbagged the only window on the outside of the house and covered the inside with heavy half-inch wire-mesh screening. He had provided the requisite fire extinguisher, battery operated radio, ax, crowbar, battery lantern, first-aid kit and bottles of water. Cartons of canned food lay stacked on a small heavy handmade hardwood table along with a Sterno stove, a travel alarm clock and an air pump for blowing up the mattresses rolled in the corner.

All this built and purchased on a milkman's salary. He even had a pick and shovel there, for digging out after the blast. The one thing Willie omitted and that the government recommended was a chemical toilet. They were expensive. And he'd left before getting around to that. Now the place was sort of ratty-looking-food supplies raided for Ruth's cooking, the extinguisher fallen off its wall mount, batteries dead in the radio and lantern, and the items themselves filthy from three solid years of grim neglect.

The shelter reminded Ruth of Willie. She was not going to clean it. We played there sometimes, but not often. The place was scary. It was as though he'd built a cell there-not a shelter to keep something out but a dark black hole to keep something in.

And in a way its central location informed the whole cellar. You'd be down there drinking a Coke talking with Ruth while she did her laundry and you'd look over your shoulder and see this evil-looking bunker sort of thing, this squat concrete. As though the wall itself were old and sick and. I tell you, what's missing from that goddamn Karnival's a good old-fashioned hootchiekoo! It was Tuesday night, the second night of Karnival and Ruth was watching Cheyenne Bodie get deputized for the umpteenth time and the town's chickenshit mayor pinning the deputy's badge to his fringed cowhide shirt.

Cheyenne looked proud and determined. Ruth held a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other and sat low and tired-looking in the big overstuffed chair by the fireplace, her long legs stretched out on the hassock, barefoot. Woofer glanced up at her from the floor. Dancin' girls, Ralphie. That and the freak show. When I was your age we had both. I saw a man with three arms once.

I did. I saw a man with three arms-one of 'em just a little bitty thing coming out of here.

He ran his hand over his blond flattop. He was always doing that. I guess he enjoyed the feel of it though I couldn't see how he'd like the greasy waxed part up front. You know stillborns? In formaldehyde. Little shrunken things-goats, cats. All kinds of stuff. That's going back a long time. I don't remember. I do remember a man must have weighed five, six hundred pounds, though. Took three other fellas to haul him up. Fattest damn thing I ever saw. We laughed, picturing the three guys having to help him up.

We all knew Ruth was careful of her weight. She sighed. You could see her face go calm and dreamy-looking then the way it did sometimes when she was looking back-way back. Not to Willie but all the way back to her childhood. I always liked watching her then. I think we all did. The lines and angles seemed to soften and for somebody's mother, she was almost beautiful.

It was a big thing for him tonight, being able to go out to the Karnival this late. He was eager to get going. Finish your sodas.

Let me finish my beer. The only other person I knew who smoked a cigarette as hard as Ruth did was Eddie's dad. She tilted the beer can and drank. He leaned forward next to me on the couch, his shoulders turned inward, rounded. As Willie got older and taller his slouch got more pronounced. Ruth said that if he kept on growing and slouching at this rate he was going to be a hunchback.

A six footer "Yeah," said Woofer. I don't get it. Doncha know anything? Half naked too, some of them. Maybe a ruby in the belly button or something. With little dark red circles painted here, and here. Then she looked at us. Woofer laughed. Willie and Donny were watching her intently. Eddie remained fixed on Cheyenne Bodie. She laughed. Not those boys. Hell, they'd like to.

They'd love to! But they've all got wives. Damn hypocrites. Ruth was always going on about the Kiwanis or the Rotary or something. She walked into the kitchen and dropped her empty beer can in the garbage pail.

Down the hall the door to her room opened and Meg stepped out, looking a little wary at first, I thought-I guessed it was Ruth's shouting. Then her eyes settled on me and she smiled, a So that was how they were working it, I thought. Meg and Susan were in Ruth's old room. It was logical because that was the smaller of the two. I wondered what my parents would say to that.

You take care of your sister and keep yourself out of the icebox. Don't want you getting fat on us.

Their door was to the left opposite the bathroom, the boys' room straight on. I could hear soft radio music coming from behind the door. When you're twelve, little kids are little kids and that's about it. You're not even supposed to notice them, really. They're like bugs or birds or squirrels or somebody's roving house cat-part of the landscape but so what.

Unless of course it's somebody. I'd have noticed Susan though. I knew that the girl on the bed looking up at me from her copy of Screen Stories was nine years old-Meg had told me that-but she looked a whole lot younger. I was glad she had the covers up so I couldn't see the casts on her hips and legs. She seemed frail enough as it was without my having to think about all those broken bones. I was aware of her wrists, though, and the long thin fingers holding the.

Except for the bright green eyes it was almost like meeting Meg's opposite. Where Meg was all health and strength and vitality, this one was a shadow. Her skin so pale under the reading lamp it looked translucent. Donny'd said she still took pills every day for fever, antibiotics, and that she wasn't healing right, that walking was still pretty painful, a I thought of the Hans Christian Andersen story about the little mermaid whose legs had hurt her too.

In the book I had the illustration even. The same long silky blond hair and soft delicate features, the same look of sad long-time vulnerability. Like someone cast ashore. She looked at me a moment more and smiled back at me and then went back to the magazine. I didn't know what to say. Two nights after Karnival a bunch of us slept out together. The older guys on the block- Lou Morino, Glen Knoll, and Harry Gray-had been in the habit for years now of camping out on warm summer nights at the old water tower in the woods behind the Little League diamond with a couple of six-packs between them and cigarettes stolen from Murphy's store.

We were all still too young for that, with the water tower all the way over on the other side of town. But that hadn't stopped us from envying them aloud and frequently until finally our parents said it would be okay if we camped out too as long as it was under supervision-meaning, in somebody's backyard.

So that was what we did. I had a tent and Tony Morino had his brother Lou's when he wasn't using it so it was always my backyard or his. Personally, I preferred my own. Tony's was all right-but what you wanted to do was to get back as far away from the house as possible in order to have the illusion of really being out there on your own and Tony's yard wasn't really suited to that.

It tapered down over a hill with just some scrub and a field behind it. The scrub and field were boring and you were resting all night on an incline. Whereas my yard ran straight back into thick deep woods, spooky and dark at night with the shadows of elm, birch and maple trees and wild with sounds of crickets and frogs from the brook. It was flat and a lot more comfortable. At least that night we didn't. Billie just vomited into a pan on the stove! Woofer was being punished for playing with his plastic soldiers in the wire-mesh incinerator in the yard again-otherwise he might have whined long enough and loud enough to make us take him too.

But Woofer had this habit. He'd hang his knights and soldiers from the mesh of the incinerator and watch their arms and legs burn slowly along with the trash, imagining God knows what, the plastic fire dripping, the soldiers curling, the black smoke pluming up. The toys were expensive and they made a mess all over her incinerator. There wasn't any beer but we had canteens and Thermoses full of Kool-Aid so that was all right. Eddie had half a pack of his father's Kool unfiltereds and we'd close the J tent flaps and pass one around now and then.

Then we'd open the flaps again just in case my mom came out to check on us-though she never did. Donny rolled over beside me and you could hear a Tasty-Cake wrapper crush beneath his bulk. He's just a little kid, sitting at his desk and this nice old lady schoolteacher looks at him and notices he looks real sad and says, what's wrong?

And he says, waaa! I didn't get no breakfast! You poor little guy, says the teacher. Well, don't worry, no big deal, she says, it's almost lunchtime. You'll get. So now let's return to our geography lessons. Where's the Italian border?

That's how come I didn't get no fucking breakfast! Willie was on the other side of me over against the tent. I could smell his hair wax and, occasionally and unpleasantly, his bad teeth. Like I fucked Debra Paget. It was dangerous to contradict him but Donny was lying between them and Donny outweighed him by fifteen pounds. So I hock it off him outa his drawer, read the jokes, check the broads, and put it back again. He never knows. No sweat. Eddie looked at him. Tony lived across the street from him and we all knew that Tony knew that Eddie's dad beat.

I mean, Marilyn Monroe was in there. It's the greatest magazine ever. Better than Mad? He took a drag on the cigarette and smiled. The smile was all knowing. He passed the smoke to Eddie, who took a final drag and stubbed it out on the grass, then flipped the butt into the woods. There was one of those silences where nobody had anything to say, we were all off alone there somewhere. For a minute I saw.The investigation occasionally crops up, but very early into the book the reader knows who the murder is so it doesn't follow the traditional trajectory of keeping the reader in the dark, which I found refreshing.

They just lay there like a pair of large dark tumorous growths. There was suddenly this fine clean smell sitting next to me. And he looked like he'd never been hard, Ruth.

He went down the hall to his bedroom and it occurred to me to wonder how they were working that now that Meg and Susan were there, just who was sleeping where. When Woody discovered that she was being unfaithful to him he murdered her and her lover, cut off one of their hands and buried both in a tin box far out in the fields.

Cheryl and Denise were already there, leaning on the backstop fence behind home plate and staring through the links.

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