Brooke Beretta -

Brooke closed the book. The house behind her groaned, settled, and was finally, mercifully silent.

And then there was the basement.

She opened the book and read aloud. The words were not English, or any language Brooke knew, but they came out of her mouth like they had been waiting there for a hundred years. The thing wearing Julian Cross's face screamed—a terrible, high-pitched sound that went on far too long for a human throat. Then it collapsed into a pile of dust and old bone. brooke beretta

The first page was dated October 31, 1892. The handwriting was elegant, feminine, and increasingly frantic. Brooke closed the book

Brooke closed the book. The house behind her groaned, settled, and was finally, mercifully silent.

And then there was the basement.

She opened the book and read aloud. The words were not English, or any language Brooke knew, but they came out of her mouth like they had been waiting there for a hundred years. The thing wearing Julian Cross's face screamed—a terrible, high-pitched sound that went on far too long for a human throat. Then it collapsed into a pile of dust and old bone.

The first page was dated October 31, 1892. The handwriting was elegant, feminine, and increasingly frantic.