Paul JohnstonPaul Johnston
The Black Life The Nameless Dead The Nameless Dead The Death List The Soul Collector
The Greek Novels
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The Nameless Dead
- On The Cover
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The Death List
The Soul Collector
Maps of Hell

The Nameless Dead


Laurie turned the key in the lock and went quickly up the stairs – there was no elevator in the converted family house. She felt the breath catch in her throat, aware that her feet were heavy on the steps. She really did need to get a fitness program organized. Filling her lungs, she opened the pair of locks and went inside. There was an unusual smell, something chemical, but she hardly noticed it, so eager was she to lay eyes on Wendell. She flicked on the light, shucking her coat and throwing off her scarf. Then she stepped toward the dining room door, her heart hammering.

There was a wide smile on Laurie Simpson’s face as she walked into the knife that killed her. The last thing she saw, and it hurt much more than the blade slicing through her abdomen, was the red swastika that had been sprayed over Wendell’s face. She opened her mouth to let out a cry of anguish, but no sound came as she went to join her beloved.

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