The House keeps the family secrets, says nothing of the child bones in the garden, and laps up the blood of kings with its long red tongue. It knows what’s coming and what has come before. It has been a bloodline and a metaphor and a curse. It lives and changes, it grows new skin. Now, The House watches over the city like a panopticon. An old and twisted thing, its stones are heavy with the pain of generations. It turns its head and glances over the collar of its coat of tall trees, a predatory gaze. The House grows impatient. It waits to feed. It waits for you.
I’d love to hear your book read on talking books for the visually impaired. Unfortunately, the colorful illustrations are lacking on the audio books. 😢