THE LEGEND OF THE ALBINO FARM
The Legend of the Albino Farm is a horror story turned inside out. What if a thriving family were saddled with an unshakable spook tale? And what if that lore cursed them with an unending whirlwind of destruction from thrill seekers, partiers, bikers, and Goths? Hettienne Sheehy is about to inherit this devouring legacy. Last child to bear a once golden name, she is heiress to a sprawling farm in the Missouri Ozarks. During summer, childhood idylls in the late 1940s, Hettienne has foreseen all this apocalyptic fury in frightening, mystifying visions. Haunted by a whirling augury, by a hurtful spook tale, and by a property that seems to doom all who would dare own it, in the end, Hettienne will risk everything to save the family she truly loves.
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$16.00 | Paperback | 5 1/2 x 8 1/4 | 224 pages
ISBN: 978-1-60953-140-9 | Carton Quantity: 24
On the northern border of Springfield, Missouri, there once was a great house surrounded by emerald woods, lake, and meadow, a home place and farm that, to the lasting sorrow of its owners and heirs, acquired a nonsensical legend marring all memory of its glory days. The estate became known and is still known, if it is remembered at all, as The Albino Farm.
The legend, which began to circulate in town just after the Second World War, had no basis in anything like the truth. Albinos did not live on the farm. Never had. They certainly were never tortured there. No one ever was. And who in their right mind would hire an albino for a caretaker? A vast Irish Catholic family, the Sheehys, farmed on 330 acres and lived there in that thirteen-room mansion across the highway from Green Hills Cemetery. If they seemed pale, it was in the winter months. They were, even the women, strikingly tall, all with long faces. Aloof. Better than the rest of Springfield. And strange.
It was Hettienne that the Sheehys worried most about. The young girl had been vigorous, giddy, with fine and flowing blonde hair, symmetrical proportions, and a penchant for any game that involved running and screaming. But when she turned thirteen she suffered episodes of catatonia, somnambulism, and jags of mystifying talk. Lost in these fits, Hettienne saw what was coming for her family—a chaos, a curse, the legend that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
On the train with her parents in 1946 traveling down from Chicago for their annual summer visit to the Old Sheehy Place, she fretted. Beneath the tan sunlight lancing through the narrow windows, something was breaking open, she could sense it, like the rupture of peeling skin beneath which shined startling, white flesh. This trip her legs cramped against tabletops. When she extended them, they jutted like two monstrous icicles.
As the dining car banged across trestles above the sparkling Osage River, a woman tottered around her with newspapers rolled under each arm and steaming coffee sloshing.
“Sit up straight,” her father whispered. “Hettienne….” John Sheehy paused and gave the apologetic traveler the flat hint of a smile, his lips tight as a stitch. “Hettienne,” he resumed once the woman passed, “you may very well be The Last Sheehy.”