{"product_id":"the-place-where-they-buried-your-heart-isbn-9780593953952","title":"The Place Where They Buried Your Heart","description":"\u003cb\u003eA woman must confront the evil that has been terrorizing her street since she was a child in this gripping haunted house novel from the national bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe House That Horror Built \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eGood Girls Don’t Die\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn an otherwise ordinary street in Chicago, there is a house. An abandoned house where, once upon a time, terrible things happened. The children who live on this block are told by their parents to stay away from that house. But of course, children don’t listen. Children think it’s fun to be scared, to dare each other to go inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJessie Campanelli did what many older sisters do and dared her little brother Paul. But unlike all the other kids who went inside that abandoned house, Paul didn’t return. His two friends, Jake and Richie, said that the house ate Paul. Of course adults didn’t believe that. Adults never believe what kids say. They thought someone kidnapped Paul, or otherwise hurt him. They thought Paul had disappeared in a way that was ordinary, explainable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe disappearance of her little brother broke Jessie’s family apart in ways that would never be repaired. Jessie grew up, had a child of her own, kept living on the same street where the house that ate her brother sat, crouched and waiting. And darkness seemed to spread out from that house, a darkness that was alive—alive and \u003ci\u003ehungry\u003c\/i\u003e.“\u003ci\u003eThe Place Where They Buried Your Heart\u003c\/i\u003e is an ode to all facets of a haunted house tale. Henry masterfully layers childhood nostalgia and complex family relationships with genuine chills and eerie thrills. I was equal parts moved and terrified. Read this under the covers with a very strong flashlight!\" - \u003cb\u003eErin A. Craig\u003c\/b\u003e, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Thirteenth Child\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Place Where They Buried Your Heart \u003c\/i\u003eis a cosmic blast of haunted house horror in which Christina Henry explores the complex bonds of families—both the ones we lose and the ones we gain—and how those relationships can be found in the most unexpected of places. It’s a story about monsters, and murder, and loss, but it’s also a story about the ferocity of love, and the improbable ways it can capture our hearts.” - \u003cb\u003ePhilip Fracassi\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eBoys in the Valley\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"An excellent, original haunted house story, but its truly unsettling magic is the way it delves into the ability of the past to haunt an entire neighborhood, across generations.\" \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eChristopher Golden\u003c\/b\u003e,\u003ci\u003e New York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Night Birds\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eRoad of Bones\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eChristina Henry\u003c\/b\u003e is a horror and dark fantasy author whose works include \u003ci\u003eThe House That Horror Built\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eGood Girls Don’t Die\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHorseman\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNear the Bone\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Ghost Tree\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Girl in Red\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Mermaid\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLost Boy\u003c\/i\u003e, The Chronicles of Alice series (\u003ci\u003eAlice\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eRed Queen\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLooking Glass\u003c\/i\u003e) and the seven-book urban fantasy Black Wings series.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Her short stories have been featured in the anthologies \u003ci\u003eElemental Forces\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eCursed\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTwice Cursed\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eGiving the Devil His Due\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eKicking It\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She enjoys running long distances, reading anything she can get her hands on and watching movies with samurai, zombies and\/or subtitles in her spare time. She lives in Chicago with her husband and son.CHAPTER ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1993\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was at home, grounded for stealing cigarettes from Johnnie's corner store, on the day my baby brother, Paul, was eaten by the house at the end of the street. Paul was eight and I was thirteen. I wasn't there when it happened but it was my fault anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house, the old McIntyre place, had been abandoned for twenty years when Paul and his friends Richie and Jake snuck in through the back door. They weren't supposed to get hurt, none of them. It was only a dare, a childish thing. I couldn't have known what would happen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeighborhood teenagers had used a certain broken window on the side for years, had smoked and drank and gotten inside each other's pants in the dusty, rat-infested living room of the former residents. Those kids always said the place was creepy, that there were bloodstains on the walls. Some of them claimed to have heard noises upstairs, but this kind of talk was mostly dismissed. There was always someone in every group-usually a boy-who wanted to terrorize the girls into squeezing closer, and saying there were noises upstairs was an easy way to do that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNobody ever said the house was dangerous-that is, beyond the obvious fact that it was an old, rotting house. More than one kid needed an extra tetanus shot after going in there, but nobody died. Nobody died until Paul.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI should probably say that nobody died because of the thing in the house. Because somebody had died there, that's for sure. Seven somebodies died there, and they'd died in such horrible ways that no one had wanted to live in the house ever again. Which was why it was abandoned and rotting. Which was why it had become the perfect place for the kids in the neighborhood to have a little thrill of danger without actually experiencing it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcept for Paul and Richie and Jake. Three went in and two came out and it was my fault.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a rambling three-story frame house, unusual in an area that had mostly two- or three-flats made of brick or greystone, canted a little to one side like there was subsidence beneath. Chicago was built on a swamp, so the subsidence kind of made sense, except none of the other houses in the neighborhood tilted that way. As far as I knew, no one ever went up to the third floor. Most kids don't even like to go into their own attics, never mind the attic of a building that had holes in the stairs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne time Scott Gunther tried to go up those stairs on a dare and his leg went through the third step. His pant leg tore all the way up to the hem of his briefs and he was pretty embarrassed about that when they yanked him out. The two other boys who'd dared him were laughing until Scott's eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed. That was when they realized the broken wood in the step had carved a deep jagged line in Scott's flesh from his ankle to his thigh and he was bleeding out while they laughed. Scott was a few years older than me, and he never wore shorts again because the little kids would ask him about the scar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe neighbors across the street, the Rileys, said they heard Paul and Richie and Jake screaming sometime around 3:30 p.m. Mr. Riley was watering the front lawn and listening to the Cubs game on the radio. Mrs. Riley was clipping coupons from the weekly circular at her kitchen table. The window above the sink was open. She told me later that she heard the three boys over the sound of the game and the traffic on the street, even though the kitchen was in the back of the house like most Chicago apartments.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was an ear-splitting scream, high-pitched and terrified, and Mr. Riley shut off the hose. Mrs. Riley stood up from the kitchen table, her scissors still in her right hand, and went to the front of the house and opened the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Carl, did you hear that?\" she called, and she told me her heart felt like it was about to burst right out of her throat, the sheer unnaturalness of the sound spiking panic through her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarl stood on the lawn, the hose sprayer in his hand, his head cocked to one side. Mrs. Riley remembered the crack of the bat followed by Ron Santo's voice lamenting a Cardinals run, and then, she said, \"It was pure pandemonium.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boys were yelling and crying loud enough to be heard all up and down the block. Mrs. Riley rushed out to the front lawn wielding the scissors. Mr. Riley dropped the hose and ran across the street, pushing open the rusting metal gate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Riley said that she stood there, holding the scissors and not knowing what to do. The Majewskis came out onto their porch holding hands, their faces terrified. They lived to the right of the Rileys, on the first floor, and they were both in their seventies. Mrs. Majewski was so pale that Mrs. Riley was worried she might faint on the spot. Mrs. Majewski wore a pink flowered housecoat and her carpet slippers, and her hair was white and fine and fluttering in the breeze. Mrs. Riley thought she looked like a dandelion with a bent stem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTed Dobrowski, who lived on the other side of the Rileys, rushed out his front door. He was in his mid-thirties, divorced, and had one fifteen-year-old son, Alex, who was known as a Problem Child around the block. Ted wore his Sandberg jersey and he held a can of Old Style.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What the hell, Sheila?\" he said, staring across the street at Carl, who was trying to open the front door of the McIntyre place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere were boards tacked over the frame to keep anyone from going inside. The boards were covered in faded citations that had, as far as anyone knew, never been followed through on. Maybe if the city had done what they were supposed to do and torn down the property years before, none of this would have ever happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTed dropped his beer on the lawn and ran to help Carl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Should we call the police?\" Alice Majewski said, her voice quavering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe screams were louder, more frantic, and mixed with the hoarse cries of Carl Riley and Ted Dobrowski calling, \"Hang on kids! We're coming!\" and the crack of the bat and cheers coming from the radio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSheila Riley said the men got the boards off and Ted Dobrowski ran at the door like a linebacker, shoulder first and legs low, and the door flew open as if by magic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And then,\" Sheila Riley told me, ten years later, after Carl Riley had died from stomach cancer and Ted Dobrowski's Problem Child had become my personal problem, \"it was even worse. Because the door was open and there was nothing to muffle that sound-the sound of those boys in terror. Carl and Ted just stood there in the doorway, and you could tell they didn't know what to do. There was this other noise then, this almost-roar, but it wasn't exactly that. I don't know how to describe it, except it was like there was a crack in the world. And right before that crack closed up again, I heard him. I heard Paul screaming your name, saying, 'Jessie, Jessie,' over and over again.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the day my brother was eaten by the house at the end of the street I was home, grounded and in a filthy mood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaul kept coming to my bedroom, trying to jolly me out from under the black cloud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wanna play Monopoly?\" he asked, his brown eyes and the tip of his nose peeking around my door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No,\" I said. I had my Walkman on, blasting the Black Crowes. I did not want to listen to Paul chattering. I turned the volume up as far as it would go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hated having to use a cassette player when all my friends had CDs, but as my mother frequently reminded me, \"WE CAN'T AFFORD IT\" and \"WHEN YOU'RE OLD ENOUGH TO GET A JOB YOU CAN WASTE YOUR MONEY ON THOSE KINDS OF THINGS.\" She probably wasn't yelling at me all the time, but whenever she talked, it felt like she was, like everything she ever said to me was in all caps because I was \"GOING TO BE THE DEATH OF HER.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaul was her perfect child, the one who did everything right all the time. But maybe I only remember him that way because he never had a chance to grow up and mess up, never had a chance to be a teenager, to change, to make mistakes, to atone, to morph into someone new and more complicated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eyes and nose disappeared, but fifteen minutes later he was back again. \"Wanna play Life?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, Paulie,\" I said. \"Get lost.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pushed the door open a little farther. I remember him standing there, his black curls spiraling everywhere in the humidity, just like mine. His legs were skinny and scabbed under gray shorts. He always wore his Cubs shirt on home game days, even if that meant he wore it three or four days in a row.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mom told you not to call me Paulie. I don't like it,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Whatever, Paulie.\" I flopped back on my bed so my eyes burned a hole in the ceiling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jessie, Mom said don't do it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned onto my right side so I wouldn't face the door. The Walkman volume wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of him coming around my bed. I closed my eyes, trying my hardest to ignore him. He pushed his hand into my shoulder, shoving me a little. My eyes snapped open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You want a black eye, Paulie?\" I said, sitting up and menacing him with my fist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't call me Paulie!\" he said, his tone right on the verge of whiny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll call you whatever I want, Paulie.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm gonna tell Mom,\" Paul said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm already grounded. I don't care.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was a lie. Mom said if I \"PUT ONE TOE OUT OF LINE\" I'd be grounded for the entire summer. It never pays to show weakness to a younger sibling, though. If they detect a single chink in your armor, they will exploit it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaul stood there, staring at me with jaws and fists clenched. He really wanted to slug me, I could tell, but Mom had told him that \"gentlemen don't hit their sisters.\" (\"What if she's being a jerk?\" Paul had asked. \"Not even then,\" Mom had replied.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why won't you stop?\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Because it annoys you, Paulie. If it didn't annoy you, I wouldn't do it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI flopped onto my back again, staring at the ceiling. A little brown house spider crawled slowly across the blue paint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What if I give you all my baseball cards?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, Paulie. I don't want your baseball cards.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Paulie is a baby name,\" he said, desperation evident in his voice. \"I'm a big kid now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, yeah?\" I asked, sitting up straight with a sudden brain wave. \"Prove it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Prove it how?\" he asked warily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You've got to go into the McIntyre place and stay there for a half hour,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn't think he'd actually do it. Like most of the younger kids in the neighborhood (including myself, a few years earlier), Paul thought the McIntyre place was haunted. He'd probably stand on the sidewalk, looking at the house, for the rest of the afternoon, his teeth chattering while he tried to convince himself to go in before slinking home, defeated, for dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How will I prove I was there the whole time?\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You gotta bring Richie and Jake with you,\" I said in another moment of light bulb brilliance. It would take extra time for Paul to round up the other two (which meant more minutes out of the house and not bothering me), and also, Richie was a tattler. If they did, by any chance, work up the guts to go inside and didn't spend the full half hour, then Richie would tell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn fact, if they did actually fulfill the terms of the dare, Richie would tell, anyway. When his mom asked what he did during the day, he was incapable of lying to her. If Richie said that he and Paul and Jake had gone inside the McIntyre place, they'd all be in trouble, and I was feeling just vindictive enough to want somebody to be in trouble besides me. All the kids were told to keep away from the house because it was dangerous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen grown-ups said \"dangerous,\" they meant \"structurally unsound.\" They didn't mean the house could devour a child whole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn't think Paul would tell Richie about the dare. He wouldn't want Richie to know, because conflicts between siblings are kept between siblings, or at least that was how Paul and I were. Petty arguments were immediately turned over to the court of Mom and Dad, but anything serious stayed between us. It turned out I was right about that, although I didn't know for a long time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If I go in there, if I really do it, will you stop calling me Paulie?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah,\" I said. There's not a chance in hell you'll do it, I thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe licked his lips and stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking uncertain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I dare you,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe walked out of the room and I never saw him again.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233729097957,"sku":"NP9780593953952","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593953952.jpg?v=1767740975","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-place-where-they-buried-your-heart-isbn-9780593953952","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}