Writing

The Pacific Ocean was quiet again, but it had sang once of supernatural horrors. From a window within the rebuilt Safehouse, or as the Sect of Light was now calling it, the Ocean House, Christine Carlyle watched through her dark blue-gray eyes as the tide press against the shore, each wave folding in on itself like a thought she didn’t want to finish. Today, the calm air softly whispered through the dune grass, bending it leftward. Christine’s gaze drifted to the trees on the