Cursed: A Century Hill Duet

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Cursed: A Century Hill Duet – Mychael Black

Century Hill. A name synonymous with mistreatment, torment, and damned souls. Brock City’s very own derelict, haunted mental hospital is the main star in these two stories. In Century Hill, thief Kris Shepard gets more than he bargained for when he steps foot into the abandoned asylum and meets Lane Solis. Several years later, in Return to Century Hill, medium Shannon Malone finds himself drawn back to the one place he swore he’d never step foot in again to help local priest Sean Jeffries put the asylum’s tortured spirits to rest.

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EXCERPT from Century Hill:

“Find him! He can’t run that goddamned fast!”

I flattened myself against the wall, praying the shadows kept me hidden. I saw several of my pursuers run past the alley entrance, shouting that they’d kill me when they found me. I’d be long gone before they could make good on their threat.

Half an hour passed, and I hadn’t moved a muscle except to breathe — steady, in and out, in and out. If I kept up the rhythm, I’d be okay. I’d been through worse.

Only when I was sure that they’d given up did I leave the safety of the dark. This was stupid. I was smarter than this. How had they seen me at all?

Inching out cautiously, I peered up and down the street. It was deserted, dark, and quiet. The only sound was the relentless pounding of my heart, and it was loud enough that, for a moment, I wondered if anyone else could hear it.

The idol in my backpack was getting heavy. I just wanted to deliver the damn thing, collect my fee, and be done with it. Coming back to this dank, roach-and-rat-infested sewer of a city was, without a doubt, the lowest point of my career. I swore to stick to high-price jobs, no more acquiring relics that were older than dirt, especially for mysterious, no-name fuckers who didn’t even have the decency to pay half up-front.

I took off at a steady run toward the alley a couple blocks down. Digging my keys out of a zippered pocket, I skidded around the corner and nearly ran right into a stinking, overfilled dumpster. I hopped onto the bike hidden behind it and cranked my baby up. It rumbled to life beneath me, the purr sweet as fuck. I sped away from the shadows and out onto the street with nearly eighty horses vibrating between my legs.

Brock City flew by in a blur, and, before long, I was crossing the city limits and entering Carter County. The road wound uphill, a straight shot from Brock City to the rotting carcass that was once Century Hill Asylum. Who the fuck buys a ruined, century-old mental hospital, anyway?

Century Hill Lane cut a zigzag up the side of the hill, and I slowed down as I started the ascent. Too many deaths out here had given the road the uninventive but wholly fitting name of “Highway to Hell.” Little white, weathered crosses dotted either side of the road, though most were on the slope side. The trees were thick down the hill, perfect for wrapping a car around. My friends and I used to come up here when we were teenagers, daring each other to touch the faded, ruined wall that surrounded the hospital. As with most places like this, Century Hill Asylum was reputed to be haunted. Not that I believed the rumors, and the recent purchase of the place convinced me the stories were just a load of bullshit.