Behind the Door Book Tour & Giveaway

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Kathy Ryan #1


Mary SanGiovanni


Genre: Horror


Date: 8/28/2018


specialist Kathy Ryan returns in this thrilling novel of paranorm
alhorror from Mary SanGiovanni, the author ofChills .. .
Some doors should
never be opened . . .
In the rural town of
Zarepath, deep in the woods on the border of New Jersey and
Pennsylvania, stands the Door. No one knows where it came from, and
no one knows where it leads. For generations, folks have come to the
Door seeking solace or forgiveness. They deliver a handwritten letter
asking for some emotional burden to be lifted, sealed with a mixture
of wax and their own blood, and slide it beneath the Door. Three days
later, their wish is answered—for better or worse.
Kari is a single
mother, grieving over the suicide of her teenage daughter. She made a
terrible mistake, asking the powers beyond the Door to erase the
memories of her lost child. And when she opened the Door to retrieve
her letter, she unleashed every sin, secret, and spirit ever trapped
on the other side.
Now, it falls to
occultist Kathy Ryan to seal the door before Zarepath becomes hell on
earth . . .


isthe author of the Bram Stoker nominated novel



and The
Triumvirate, Thrall, Chaos, Savage Woods, Chills
introduced occult security consultant Kathy Ryan—as well as the
novellas For 
Possessing Amy

TheFading Place

as well as numerous short stories. She has been writing fiction for
over a decade, has a masters in writing popular fiction from Seton
Hill University, and is a member of The Authors Guild, Penn Writers,
and International Thriller Writers. Her website

In the town of Zarephath, Pennsylvania, just past the Pennsylvania-New Jersey border and
northwest of Dingmans Ferry out by the Delaware Water Gap, there is a Door.
Many stories about it form a particularly colorful subset of the local lore of the town and its
surrounding woods, streams, and lakes. Most of them relate the same essential series of events,
beginning with a burden of no small psychological impact, progressing to a twilight trip through the
southwestern corner of the woods near Zarephath, and arriving at a door. Numerous variations detail
what, exactly, must be presented at the door and how, but ultimately, these stories end with an
unburdening of the soul and, more or less, happy endings. It is said “more or less” because such endings
are arbitrarily more or less agreeable to the individuals involved than the situations prior to their visit to
the Door of Zarephath. More times than not, the “less” wins out.
There are some old folks in town, snow- and storm cloud–haired sept and octogenarians who sip
coffee and people-watch from the local diner or gather on front porches at dusk or over the counter at
Ed’s Hardware to trade stories of Korea and Vietnam, and in one venerable case, World War II, and it’s
said they know a thing or two about that door. The old-timers remember the desperation of postwar
addictions and nightmares and what they used to call shell shock, of families they couldn’t help wearing
down or beating up or tearing apart, despite their best efforts to hold things together. They remember
carrying burdens, often buried but never very deeply, beneath their conscious thoughts, burdens that
crawled their way up from oblivion and into nightmares and flashbacks when the darkness of booze or
even just the night took over men who had once been children and who were expected to be men. They
remember late-night pilgrimages through the forest on the outskirts of town, trekking miles in through
rain or dark or frost-laced wind to find that door, and lay their sins and sorrows at its feet. And they
remember that sometimes, forgetting proved to be worse.
The old women too remember bruises and battered faces and blackouts. They remember
cheating husbands and cancers and unwanted pregnancies and miscarriages and daughters being
touched where they shouldn’t by men who should have protected them. The old women remember the
Door in Zarephath being a secret, almost sacred equalizer that older women imparted to younger
women, a means of power passed from one group whose hands were socially and conventionally tied to
another. And they remember watching strong women fall apart under the weight of that power.
And these old folks remember trying once to burn the door down, but of course, that hadn’t
worked. The Door in Zarephath won’t burn because it isn’t made of any wood of this earth, anything
beholden to the voracious appetite of fire. It had an appetite of its own that night, and no one has tried
to burn it down since. Rather, the old-timers have learned to stay away from it, for the most part, to
relegate the knowledge of its location and its promises to the same dusty old chests in the mind that the
worst of their war stories are kept. There’s an unspoken agreement that as far as the Door in Zarephath
goes, the young people can fend for themselves. While the folks in Zarephath won’t stop a person from
using the Door, they aren’t usually inclined to help anyone use it. Not in the open, and not just anyone
who asks about it. Behind some doors are rooms hidden for good cause in places human beings were
probably never meant to know about—rooms meant never to be entered—and the old folks of
Zarephath understand that for reasons they may never know, they were given a skeleton key to one
such room. There’s a responsibility in that, the kind whose true gravity is maybe only recognized by
those with enough years and experience and mistakes left behind to really grasp it.People often say the old-folks’ generation were stoic, used to getting by with very little and
largely of a mind frame not prone to histrionic anxiety or useless worry. People say it has to do with
surviving the Depression and growing up in a simpler, more rugged time. But for the old folks in
Zarephath, the strength of their fiber comes from what they remember—and from what they have
come to accept forgetting. It comes from what they no longer choose to lay before the Door.


the tour HERE

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