Ghost Huntress Book 5: The Discovery

by Marley Gibson

Kendall is faced with her greatest foe yet—a doll more evil than Chucky!

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780547393087
  • ISBN-10: 0547393083
  • Pages: 264
  • Publication Date: 05/02/2011
  • Carton Quantity: 48

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About the Book
About the Author
  • About the Book
    After some time off, Kendall’s ready to begin ghost hunting again. But her life is still in flux. She misses Patrick, her new love. She needs to find a photographer to replace Taylor. Plus, she may have discovered who her real father is, but to be sure, she has to convince his family she’s not a fake.

    And then there’s a certain doll that seems to be out to get her and her friends. A doll? How could that be? Unless, perhaps, it’s not just a doll. Maybe it’s a vessel containing the soul of a man so evil in life, not even death could stop his reign of terror. This could be Kendall’s most terrifying and deadliest encounter yet.

  • About the Author
  • Excerpts


    Chapter One

    I’m about to walk into a stranger’s place of business, introduce
    myself, and ask the million-dollar question of my life: Do
    you know who my father is?
     How freakin’ messed up is that?
     I take a deep breath and slowly let out the pent-up air
    through my parted lips, allowing my lungs to stretch and contract
    like a taut rubber band. Maybe that’s the tightness I’m
    feeling in my chest. Yeah, right . . . couldn’t be the fact that
    I’m in St. Louis in search of someone who might know what
    man contributed the DNA that eventually became Kendall
     Mom—my adopted mom, Sarah Moorehead—reaches
    over and rubs her hand on my jeaned kneecap. “We’re here,
    sweetie. We can do this.”
     I nod when I really want to shake my head back and forth
    and totally chicken out on this expedition. Stealing a look in
    the visor mirror, I check for mascara flakes or food in my teeth
    from the cookies I had on the plane from Atlanta. All clear.
    Makeup . . . good. Clothes . . . mostly unwrinkled. Hair . . .
    pulled away from face with a sparkly clip, brushed, and wavy.
    I’m as ready to go as I can possibly be.
    Mom puts her purse strap over her shoulder and fists the
    rental-car keys in her palm. I climb out and listen as the automatic
    locks click shut.
     I squint into the Saturday-afternoon sunshine and glance at
    the gold-trimmed glass sign in front of the quaint art gallery
    on Twelfth Street here in downtown St. Louis. It reads andrea
    caminiti studio.
     See, here’s the current sitch: I just got back from my
    Enlightened Youth Retreat in California, where I met my new
    boyfriend, Patrick Lynn (who’s psychic just like me), and I told
    the parentals about the vision I had about the person who may
    or may not be my biological father. My bestie, Celia Nichols,
    dug up information on the name that I saw in my vision: Andy
    Caminiti. Actually, the name was Andi Caminiti. So, either my
    real dad had a sex change (eww!) or I’m about to meet a member
    of his immediate family.
     My psychic awareness tells me it’s the latter.
     “Let’s go, Kendall,” Mom says. She leads the way across the
    sidewalk and through the double-glass doors of the art gallery.
     My nostrils pick up the smell of turpentine, oil paint, and
    scented candles. Canvases adorn the left wall, laser whips of
    splashed colors in abstract patterns. To the right are more traditional
    artsy pieces of rolling hills, sunsets, beaches, and landscapes
    done in charcoal and watercolors. A spiral staircase in
    the middle leads upward to a wide-open loft area that I can see
    is full of black-and-white photographs of people. Close-ups of
    eyes, mouths, arms, and . . . is that a picture of a bellybutton?
    Weird . . . yet beautifully shot.
     For a moment, I consider this woman, Andi Caminiti, who
    is quite well known in the art community of St. Louis, Missouri,
    and I wonder how in the world I could possibly be related to
    such a talented person. I can barely draw stick figures.
     A young girl with tight curls and fashionable black glasses
    greets us.
     “Welcome to Andrea Caminiti’s gallery,” she says. “I’m Liza.
    May I show you around?”
     Mom gently clears her throat. “Thank you, Liza, but we
    have an appointment.”
     Liza adjusts her glasses on her plump face. “You must be
    Mrs. Moorehead. Andi will be right down to see you. Have a
    seat and I’ll get you some bottled water while you wait.”
     We smile and move behind Liza over to an area where two
    white-leather couches sit facing each other. When I came
    home from California and told Mom and Dad all about my
    psychic visions and the connection to the name in St. Louis,
    my ’rents didn’t hesitate to go online and book two tickets out
    here to St. Louis for this Saturday morning. Mom called ahead
    to the gallery on the pretext of wanting to purchase some of
    the artist’s work for our new house . . . so here we are.
     Liza holds out two cold, plastic bottles. “Sparkling or still?”
     “Still, thanks.”
     I take the proffered drink, twist off the cap, and quickly
    douse the fiery burn in my throat. How am I going to do this?
    Do I have the guts to reveal what I know to a total stranger?
    Will she be nice? Mean? Will she kick us out, or, worse, call the
    police and have them put us in the loony bin? Do we even still
    have loony bins in this country? These thoughts—who needs
     My BlackBerry vibrates in my pocket, and I draw it out. Patrick
    is texting me. Of course he is. We’re cosmically connected.
     >Clam down. Everything will work out. P
     I love how our brains and psyches are linked, even four
    states apart.
     The tapping of three-inch heels on the wooden spiral staircase
    causes me to jerk my head up. I see her legs first. Long and
    lean, like a runner. A flowy black skirt then comes into view
    followed by a loose-fitting black chiffon top. From the back,
    the woman is tall and thin with jet-black hair. As she turns, her
    ivory face is highlighted by bright red lipstick and lush black
    lashes surrounding her . . . hazel eyes. Wow—they’re sort of the
    same color as mine.
     “Sarah?” she asks as she walks toward us with her right
    hand extended. “I’m Andi. So nice of you to come all this way
    to see my work.”
     Mom and I both stand and the adults exchange handshakes.
    I literally stare at the pretty lady in front of me, wondering
    how I’m going to start this convo. My throat becomes as arid
    as the California desert I flew over on the way home from my
    retreat. My eyes begin to water and I’m afraid that if I blink,
    it’ll look like I’m crying. A stabbing pain cranks over my left
    eyebrow and I suddenly feel like I’ve been here before. Vuja de
    of another time. Been here, met her before. I don’t know why
    my psychic senses pick this exact moment to get all wibbletated.
    New word Patrick taught me; he picked it up from kids
    at his previous school, in Tampa. Meaning “distorted.” And I
    think that totally defines my life these days.
     Eyes that mirror my own turn to me, and Mom makes the
     “This is my daughter Kendall. Thank you for taking the
    time to meet us.”
     “Pleased to meet you both,” Andi says.
     My hand slides into Andi’s delicate one and I suddenly see
    flashes of her as a child. Long black hair gathered in a ponytail
    that’s being pulled by a nearly identical twin. Only he’s a he.
    Andy. Andy Caminiti. The name I envisioned. The two children
    are laughing and playing and wrestling over a go-cart. I
    pull my hand back, not wanting to invade memories of a family
    I may or may not be a part of.
     Andi takes in my sudden action but smiles. “Have you had
    a chance to look around the gallery?”
     “Not really, but it seems pretty cool to have your own gallery,”
    I say.
     “It is,” she says. “Took me a while, but here I am.” She
    pauses. “Are you an artist, Kendall?”
     The laughter bubbles out before I can stop it. “No, ma’am.
    Crayolas were never my friend.”
     Mom sets her hand on my shoulder. “Kendall’s talent...

  • Reviews
    Praise for The Awakening:

    "Kendall's witty narrative voice drives this wholesome-with-an-edge tale. Several unsolved mysteries will leave readers eager for the next installment."--Publishers Weekly

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