Restless: A Novel

When the dead whisper, Skylar Hale Watson is forced to listen. Returning to her family estate—a task meant to be simple and swift—soon spirals into a chilling descent as Skylar is engulfed by the ghostly echoes of the past. The dusty halls and creaking floors of the old manor house become a maze of secrets, each room holding its breath, each photograph casting a shadow darker than the last.

But the Hale family legacy is more than just tales of bygone days and forgotten lives. An ominous presence stirs in the silence, a sinister silhouette writ against the stormy nights. It weaves through the whispering woods that encroach upon the property, an ancient, relentless force that watches and waits.

With every found letter and hidden diary entry, Skylar's mission to sever ties with the estate grows more impossible. She's entwined in a harrowing narrative that claws at her from the grave, demanding she uncover a truth that should never see the light. Each revelation edges her closer to an abyss that whispers her name, promising that some family secrets carry the weight of the restless—and they're hungry for more than just answers.

And there, in the house that breathes memories and bleeds dread, Skylar must confront the most haunting question of all: Can she survive the nightmare long enough to let the estate go, or will the darkness claim her as its own?

It had been years since I'd been down this stretch of road. Lined by oak, evergreen, and birch on one side and, on the other, a shoulder-height brick wall concealed estates that stretched along the southwestern shore of another world built by privilege and wealth. It was one that, though I related to, I didn't understand. My parents didn't cash in on the family heritage or name. They were more of the "work hard for what you want" kind of people who taught humility, empathy, and a strong work ethic. Not money. To them, it was a convenient tool used to achieve goals and help others. They're wealthy, I understood that much now that I was older, but no one would ever guess it. Whatever money I'd inherit, I wouldn't see until after my parents died, and I didn't have even an inkling of what that amount could be.

Long story short, I was a third-year college student whose distant relatives once danced and housed kings and queens as the upper echelon of
Chicago high society. That's it, and that's all.

As the youngest remaining heir (by the way, I hated that term)
to my great-aunt's estate, well, as my mom put it in our final argument the day before, it was my familial duty. I would have argued the point that I was never close to my aunt and met my great-aunt only once as a child (which I didn't
remember). But my mom is my best friend and knows how to win, so in the long run, protesting further would have landed me right where I was anyway.

Still, as I took that right and drove through an iron gate onto the private street, I had to wonder why I never had any curiosity about a mansion
built at the height of the Gilded Age. Why no one discussed the house which sat absent for more than a half-century. And why the dread in my stomach roiled against the weight in my chest. Maybe it had more to do with a messy break-up with a louse of a man who thought sleeping with his co-worker would somehow be
permissible three months before our scheduled wedding date.

Yeah, that was probably it.

I shook my head. I had wasted more than enough tears on the creep. No sense in allowing more.

Tapping off my SXM radio, I glanced at the time on the dashboard. I had made good time. The man I was supposed to meet, someone who represented my
great-uncle's side of the family, should be arriving soon. I absently wondered what he would be like, how easy he would be to work with. Fingers crossed he would be friendly enough—the better we got along, the faster the whole process would go.

At least, that was my hope.

I scanned the neighboring estates as I drove past. Each one was far more modern than what waited for me at the end of the short road. But still, they
stood impressive among the professional landscaping and natural yawns of Illinois' shoreline which filled the space around and between each wealthy family's property. Mom had said that my great-aunt's property had once stretched to the main road and in several acres to the right and left. But after my great-uncle died, the outer boundaries were sold off. Even if that much was true, what remained was still one of the largest in southern Chicago.

And now, for the first time since the house was built, it was going to be leaving family hands forever. That was my job—ready the house for sale. The
details one what exactly needed to be done were a little sketchy, but as I turned left onto the short driveway to stop in front of a welcoming front
terrace (complete with a massive fountain set in the center), I guessed I'd
figure them out, all while working to dump the property.

I stepped out of the car and took in the twenty-four-thousand-foot
Tudor-style mansion. Even I had to admit it was both formidable and breathtaking. Like, really, really gorgeous. I had seen a handful of family
photos depicting the red brick and concrete estate that reached across three
wings, but they fell short of invoking the same impression as standing in its shadows. All I could do was stare, wide-eyed, at the massive wood door. Above it, second-floor windows stared back, situated between verandahs that were perched on either side. It was clear no words of mine could ever do it justice.

The tires of another car pulled my attention from the three-floor edifice, and I turned to find an SUV pulling in behind me. Tucking my phone in my back pocket and my keys in the front, I waited for the vehicle to come to a stop.

The man who stepped out wore a suit and tie, his hair was slicked back, his jaw set stern without a hint of friendliness. "You must be Skylar Watson," he said as he stepped forward to shake my hand.

"I am." I offered a smile that was not returned. "I was
under the impression you wouldn't be stopping by until the end of the
week."

The man's brows furrowed as he let go of my hand. "And how's that? We are supposed to do this together, although I can't imagine why. Seems like a monumental waste of time."

I opened my mouth, but then the realization settled in. "Wait. You must be Declan Maxwell."

"Of course. Who else?"

I laughed softly and shook my head. "I thought you were the lawyer. I wasn't expecting... Never mind. It's not important. It's nice to meet you."

"Shall we start touring the house? I don't want to be here longer than necessary."

I could take unfriendly. Rude was another matter altogether and this guy was bordering. "Then don't. As you said, I'm sure I can manage just
fine."

"Yeah, well, as much as I'd like that, I was told I needed to be
present. So what do you say we stop talking and start walking?"

I turned away with a grimace. This was going to be a pleasant few hours. Perhaps I should have fought harder to get out of handling the project after all.

Language: English

Number of Pages: 327 pages

Number of Words: 86,921

Estimated Time to Read: 8 hours

Formats: ePub & Mobi

Devices: Kindle, Apple, & Android Devices, Nook & Kobo Readers, Computers

Delivery Time & Method: Delivery Time & Method: Instant delivery to domestic and international readers via the email address provided at check-out

Also available on:Amazon, Nook, Kobo, Apple, & Smashwords