Marian Allen

It was 1968. Like a lot of seventeen-year-old males that summer, I was thinking about death. Not Bobby Kennedy's or Martin Luther King's. I was contemplating my own. I could feel my eighteenth birthday looming and I had to wonder if I'd spend my nineteenth in Vietnam, in Canada, in jail, or in the Great Hereafter. It was nearly the last mentioned, and not at the hands of the VC, either. I came this close to having my goozle slit right here at home in good old nothing-ever-happens Faelin, Indiana. Mitch Franklin thinks he's got it made when the town's wealthiest eccentric hires him to look after her two lapdogs. Then he meets her family. Five years ago, the last guy she hired played head games the family and servants are still trying to recover from. He also wound up dead. Now, some people think Mitch might be just like him. Some people think Mitch might BE him, back from the grave. Will Mitch survive the anniversary of his predecessor's death, or will he be another DEAD GUY AT THE SUMMERHOUSE?

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