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I write fiction.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But there’s something different about this one—something I can’t explain.
Blackridge didn’t feel like a story I made up. It felt like a place I remembered.
A memory I didn’t know was mine.
It started with a name I’d never written. A girl staring into a mirror that didn’t
blink. A house at the edge of a cliff, holding its breath.
I told myself it was just a story.
But the more I wrote, the more the house changed.
The more the nights stretched.
The more I heard things—behind me.
In the attic.
On the tape I never pressed record on.
You see, some stories don’t want to be told. They want to be released
K.D. Blackwell
Blackridge Series
Upcoming Book
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