The Redwood Asylum: A Paranormal Horror L.A. Detwiler (best books to read for self development .txt) 📖

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up my horror novel The Redwood Asylum. If you have the chance, would you please consider leaving reviews for my book? It really helps me finetune my craft, and I love to hear from readers like you!

If you’re intrigued by the final chapter, stay tuned. I’m working on a prequel for 2021. It is a tale set in the early days of Redwood and follows the narrator’s story.

I’d also love to hear from you at authorladetwiler@gmail.com or on my social media pages:

http://www.facebook.com/ladetwiler

http://www.instagram.com/ladetwiler

http://www.ladetwiler.com

Stay Safe and Be True,

L.A. Detwiler

About the Author

L.A. Detwiler is a USA Today Bestselling author. Her debut novel with HarperCollins UK/Avon Books, The Widow Next Door, is a USA Today and International Bestselling novel. Since then, she has penned several more novels in the thriller/horror genre, including: The One Who Got Away, The Diary of a Serial Killer’s Daughter (Winner of the Readers’ Favorite Bronze Medal), A Tortured Soul, and The Christmas Bell.

L.A. is a high school English teacher in her hometown in Pennsylvania. She lives with her husband, Chad; their mastiff, Henry; and their many rescued cats.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I want to thank my husband for always believing in me and in my stories. You are my best friend, my rock, my everything. I love you more and more each day we are together.

Thanks to my parents for teaching me to love literature, writing, and to believe in my dreams. I love you. To my teachers who influenced me and shaped me into the writer that I am, especially Sue Gunsallus, Tom Kunkle, Diane Vella, and all of the amazing professors at Mount Aloysius College. You all taught me the value of learning, of words, and of having confidence in myself.

Thanks to all of my amazing readers who have followed me on this journey. A special thanks goes out to Alicia Schmouder, Kay Shuma, Jenny Heinlein, Christie James, and all of my other amazing co-workers, friends, and family. Thank you, Grandma Bonnie for always supporting my writing. Thanks to my lovely in-laws for always being so supportive as well.

Thank you to all of the amazing writers and bloggers in the industry who have been so kind as I’ve travelled this journey. A special thank you to Stuart James for being a true friend in the horror writing industry as well as all of the amazing readers on Instagram who have shared my works. I am so blessed to have all of your support.

Finally, thank you to my true pal, Henry, who is always there with loving eyes to help me see my work through. I love you always.

Did you love Redwood Asylum?

Check out The Christmas Bell, a holiday horror that features Redwood Asylum.

Prologue

The tree glowed with the traditional lights, a symbolic beacon of brightness amidst the horror that had become her life. She stared at them, wishing she could disappear into the vast number of bulbs on the strand. Wishing she could feel them burn her from the inside out. She wondered if her guilt would crumble with the ashes of her flesh, or if it would, in fact, remain long after the semblance of who she was incinerated.

In the distance, she could hear the Christmas carolers belting out the words to “Silent Night,” but they grated on her nerves. This was not a holy night—it never would be again. This was a night tinged by sorrow, regret, and guilt.

Sorrow for the death of her twin that she painted on her face.

Regret for the part she played.

And guilt—not for the thing she had done, but for the fact that within her core, buried underneath the superficial sorrow and grief and sadness, something else remained.

Joy. Season’s joy, yearlong joy at the fact that she was finally gone. Her greatest tormentor, her greatest fear was gone from this world. She was finally dead.

“Dear, they found this in her things. I didn’t want to give it you, but Father said we should. It was her final wish, after all.”

She turned to look at her mother, or the being who somewhat resembled her mother. After the past few day’s events, she knew that her mother would never exist the same way again either. Sure, she would paint on that faux smile outlined with red lips as she baked pies and went to the women’s choir practice and talked at the supermarket to her friends about upcoming charities. But behind every story, every lie, there would always be the ugly truth that everyone recognized but couldn’t admit. They had failed as a family. They had failed as parents. And Anne had failed as a sister.

Her eyes fell now from the gray, pallid skin of her mother’s tear-stained face to her trembling hands. They looked so wrinkled, so unappealing, as they stretched toward her with the item. It was wrapped in a crumpled piece of notebook paper, the kind that is too thin to be of any substance or natural looking. It was crudely taped around a spherical object, pieces of the translucent tape sporadically placed, as if the wrapper had been in a hurry. The gift lacked finesse and certainly wasn’t one Mother would ever put under the perfectly decorated tree on a normal year. But this was no normal year.

Anne stared at her name hurriedly written in a frenetic scrawl on the front of the tiny package. Sobs threatened to rack her body. She was glad Rachel was gone in so many ways—but there was still something haunting about touching an item that belonged to a girl who didn’t know what fate awaited her.

Or did she? That was something she would push aside for now. She took the package from her mother, choosing to wander to her room to open the final gift. She was surprised her mother granted her this courtesy. Perhaps her mother had already decided, however, to wash her hands