Description:Harvey Marsburg, son of the late William Marsburg, is reading through his deceased father's long-lost diary. At first, Harv is annoyed at the peculiarities of his father, irritated that he has to uncover old wounds by reading this old book. But he finds to his amazement that his father might not actually have been mad. In fact it appears that William may have been nearly 150 years old when he died in 1977. Now his body lies decomposing in a Yorkshire mausoleum, but his legacy lives on. Harvey reads cryptic notes from the executor: "May your father rest in peace. He deserves it." Something watches him from the darknesses of his house as he reads the diary with growing interest. Plus, there are two other books in that old trunk that the foundation sent. One of them, he could swear it, is calling to him...***Excerpt:May 2011, Chatham IL~I walked into the guest room and opened the little safe again, laughing fatalistically at the numbers of the combination. It made me want to cry too. “Harv, you’re such a girl. Stop it.” Inside were the two books. There was the one, the impossible one. The one I didn’t want to have anything to do with. The one that was probably what Addison was talking about when he mentioned stewardship and burdens passing. What was that he had said about my father? "...May your father rest in peace. He deserves it..." Good God. I crouched there dumbly, looking at it.I decided that I would grab the other book, the normal-old looking one, and see what it was all about. What would it be? Another one of my father’s diaries? An account ledger from the late 1800’s? Now that would be interesting.The interior of the safe was partitioned, with each book in its own little nook. I reached in and took out the skinnier one, the normal one; leaving the fat and impossible one untouched. It was old, all right, and falling apart. The binding was loose and the cover flopped open. Sadness. I don’t know why I felt it, but I did. Maybe it’s just old books. This one looked like it was dying somehow. I looked at the flyleaf, but it was blank. I turned to the next few pages, which revealed a slanting and crowded scrawl; a compact hand wholly unlike that of my father. The words were huge, too. It didn’t take too long to see that it wasn’t English. In fact, it was German.My ears tingled and my scalp became hot. I refused, stubbornly, to put any of this together. I replaced it in the safe, locked it, bedded it down in the wood shavings of the trunk and closed the lid, walking out of the room.I ran my hands through my hair and wiped the greasy sweat from my forehead and the creases of my nostrils. I wanted to cuss a blue streak at high volume, but didn’t release myself to do so just then. Pent up is better. By far. I did some stretches and made a conscious effort to hear the rain outside, relaxing myself, willing my heart rate downward, concentrating.After a cigarette, which I desperately needed by then, I went back downstairs to read more. In English.***Praise for Airel, with Aaron Patterson:Patterson & White certainly don't have hundreds of books on their resume, but they will because their tale is so attractive that one simply must finish when started. And that is the mark of a good storyteller. Why do I use the word storyteller? They conjure the mystical and pull that extra magic out of the air, weaving it through their audience, making it a part of them forever. That is what Patterson & White do, & they do it well. Excellent job, Mr. Patterson & Mr. White - excellent! - Ashley L. Knight, author of The FINS Trilogy