By William Meikle
There are houses like this all over the world. Most people only know of them from whispered stories over campfires; tall tales told to scare the unwary. But some, those who suffer?some know better. They are drawn to the places where what ails them can be eased.
If you have the will, the fortitude, you can peer into another life, where the dead are not gone, where you can see that they thrive and go on, in the dreams that stuff is made of.
When a New York cop is called to investigate a murder at one such house, he is sucked in to a world he cannot fathom, cannot control, a place where past and present have no meaning, and where symbols and memories are as valid as facts and truths.
The black bird is speaking, but can he afford to listen?