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- Herausgeber: Twist & Tether Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
When Nora Winslow inherits her estranged aunt’s old house in the idyllic town of Alderbrook, she expects dust, memories, and maybe a few family secrets. But from the moment she arrives, the town greets her with too-bright smiles and eyes that linger just a little too long.
Strange photographs hidden in the attic. A child whispering she never died. A town that seems to breathe with unspoken dread.
As Nora digs deeper, fragments of a forgotten childhood begin to surface—fragments her mind was never meant to remember. The deeper she goes, the more the lines blur between what was real, what was taken from her, and what the town will do to ensure its darkest truths remain buried.
Why does everyone in Alderbrook want her to forget?
And why is it that the more she remembers, the more she begins to fear that she was part of something all along?
Some houses remember.
Some towns never let go.
Will Nora survive the truth that waits inside The House on Dogwood Lane—or will remembering be her undoing?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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The House on Dogwood Lane
Everyone in This Town Knows Something They Shouldn’t
TURNING POINTS: Twisted Tales for the Bold & Curious
Margot Elise Winters
Copyright © 2025 by Margot Elise Winters
All rights reserved. This collection, including all individual stories within, is protected under copyright law. No part of this box set may be reproduced, distributed, or shared in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews or articles.
All stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.
Thank you for reading this special collection. I hope you enjoy every story inside.
Table of Contents
The House on Dogwood Lane
Description
Prologue: The Closet
Chapter 1: Return to Dogwood Lane
Chapter 2: Unspoken Histories
Chapter 3: The Smiling Facades
Chapter 4: Unearthing the Past
Chapter 5: Beneath the Floorboards
Chapter 6: The Mirror Room
Chapter 7: Who Never Died
Epilogue: Months Later
The House on Dogwood Lane
Description
When Nora Winslow inherits her estranged aunt’s old house in the idyllic town of Alderbrook, she expects dust, memories, and maybe a few family secrets. But from the moment she arrives, the town greets her with too-bright smiles and eyes that linger just a little too long.
Strange photographs hidden in the attic. A child whispering she never died. A town that seems to breathe with unspoken dread.
As Nora digs deeper, fragments of a forgotten childhood begin to surface—fragments her mind was never meant to remember. The deeper she goes, the more the lines blur between what was real, what was taken from her, and what the town will do to ensure its darkest truths remain buried.
Why does everyone in Alderbrook want her to forget?
And why is it that the more she remembers, the more she begins to fear that she was part of something all along?
Some houses remember.
Some towns never let go.
Will Nora survive the truth that waits inside The House on Dogwood Lane—or will remembering be her undoing?
Prologue: The Closet
I can’t remember how I got there.
I remember the dark.
The smell of old wood and lavender, thick and cloying. My small hands pressed to rough boards, the closet door cracked just wide enough for one eye to peer through.
The attic hummed with voices below—low and rhythmic, not words but sounds that made the tiny hairs on my arms stand straight.
Shadows flickered beyond the slats, figures moving in and out of the ring of candlelight.
I saw her—Aunt Vivienne. Pale, trembling, her eyes darting to the corner where I hid. She opened her mouth as if to call me, then stopped, lips pressed thin.
And then my mother—familiar and strange all at once—stepped into the light. Her face was tight, her voice shaking as she whispered something I couldn’t hear.
The chanting rose.
Vivienne cried out—words torn from her throat. The shadows surged.
I curled tighter into the dark.
Don’t look. Don’t listen.
But I did.
A high scream cut through the air—sharp, final. The candlelight flared—then winked out, one by one.
Silence.
Then a voice, thin and weary:
“Please—don’t let her remember.”
A scuffle. A crash.
A silver locket spun across the floor, coming to rest inches from the closet door.
I reached for it—small fingers trembling—then the world tilted.
Cold hands lifted me from the shadows.
"Shhh. You must forget, my love. You must forget."
And then—darkness.
A darkness that lasted years.
Until now.
Chapter 1: Return to Dogwood Lane
The tires crunched over the gravel drive, each rotation grinding into my nerves. The house appeared through a curtain of willows like something from a forgotten dream—white clapboard faded to gray, shutters sagging, porch boards warped by years of sun and neglect. It looked smaller than I remembered, though perhaps that was because I had grown, or because memory tends to inflate the monsters that dwell in its shadows.
I parked beneath an arching oak and shut off the engine. The silence that followed was not peace but a kind of hush—as though the house were listening.
"You don’t have to do this," I told myself, gripping the wheel tighter. You could turn around right now. No one would blame you. The lawyer handled the will. You owe nothing to this place.
But that wasn’t true, not entirely. I had accepted the inheritance. Accepted responsibility. And beneath the surface—a place I refused to look too closely—something had drawn me back. A tug I couldn’t explain.
I climbed out, the autumn air crisp against my skin. A lone yellow leaf spiraled down and landed on the worn welcome mat: WELCOME HOME.
Not my home. Never was.
The front door resisted, as if reluctant to admit me. The key—a tarnished brass thing with ornate scrollwork—slid home, but I had to lean my shoulder against the warped frame to push it open.
A musty breath exhaled from within, steeped in old wood, lavender, and something faintly metallic. Dust motes drifted like restless spirits through beams of pale light that filtered past the lace curtains.
