Download Audrey's Door by Sarah Langan PDF

By Sarah Langan

equipped at the higher West part, the based Breviary claims a regal background. yet regardless of 14B's astonishingly low condominium cost, the new tragedy inside of its partitions has worried away all power tenants . . . apart from Audrey Lucas.

No stranger to tragedy at thirty-two—a survivor of a fatherless youth and a mother's hopeless dementia— Audrey is obsessively made up our minds to make her personal manner in a urban that frequently strangles the susceptible. yet is it whatever otherworldly or Audrey's personal expanding instability that's guilty for the darkish visions that hang-out her . . . and for the voice that demands that she construct a door? A door it'd be real insanity to open . . .

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Extra info for Audrey's Door

Example text

I glanced at the clock. It was one fifteen in the morning. When the common room was quiet, I put a hand to the doorknob, twisted it, and carefully pulled open the door. The room was dark, but a line of light glowed beneath Scout’s door. I frowned. Where had she been until one fifteen in the morning? Exercise seemed seriously unlikely at this point. That mystery in hand, I closed the door again and went back to bed, staring at the star-spangled ceiling until sleep finally claimed me. 3 My bedroom was cold and dark when the alarm—which I’d moved next to the bed—went off.

I mean, they were headed to Germany for a two-year research sabbatical they’d spent months applying for, but despite what they’d said about the great “opportunity,” they didn’t seem thrilled about going. The whole thing was very, very strange. Anyway, my mom’s throwing out, “It’s for the best,” at the airport wasn’t a new thing. She and dad had both been repeating that phrase over the last few weeks like a mantra. I didn’t know that it was for the best, but I didn’t want a bratty comment to be the last thing I said to them, so I nodded at my mom and faked a smile, and let my dad pull me into a rib-breaking hug.

She pushed back her chair and picked up her tray. ” Although I had no clue what she was talking about, I finished my orange juice and followed her. ” I asked, as we slid our trays through a window at the end of the buffet line. “A St. Sophia’s tradition,” she said. I followed her out of the cafeteria, back into the main building, and then through another link into another gothic building, which, Scout explained, held the school’s classrooms. When we pushed through another set of double doors and into the building, we found ourselves in a knot of plaid-clad girls squealing before three rows of lockers.

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