 Griot Audio presents an unabridged recording of The Good House by Tanana Reeve Doe, narrated by Robin Miles. This book is copyrighted 2003 by Tanana Reeve Doe. This recording is copyrighted 2003 by Recorded Books, producer and publisher of Griot Audio. Angela Toussaint's grandmother's house is so beloved of the local townspeople that they call it the Good House. Yet Angela had hoped that her grandmother's famous healing magic could save her failing marriage while she and her family lived in the old house during the summer of 2001. Instead, an unexpected tragedy ripped her family apart. When Angela begins to pick up the pieces of her life, she becomes aware that she's not the only one to have suffered a shocking loss. Could these incidents be related? Are they linked to a terrifying entity Angela's grandmother confronted in 1929? And now, the Good House. In Eden, who sleeps happiest? The serpent. Derek Walcott. Prologue. Sacajawea, Washington, July 4, 1929. The knocking at her door early Thursday afternoon might have sounded angry to an ear unschooled in the difference between panic and a bad mood. But Marie Toussaint knew better. The knocking hammered like a hail storm against this dirty door Marie Toussaint's husband had built with wood he'd salvaged from a black walnut tree knocked over in the mudslide. The mud's recent wrath had left their two-story house untouched. But sprays of buckshot fired at the house during cowardly moments, usually at night, had pocked and splintered the old door. The mere sight of the damaged door had always made her angry, and Marie Toussaint no longer trusted herself when she was angry. From the ruckus of the door there might be two or three people knocking at once. Before Marie could look up from the piano keys that had absorbed her while she tried to command her fingers through Beethoven's sonate patétique, John swept past her, his thick hand wrapped around the butt of his shotgun. He kept his gun leaning up against the wall in the kitchen like a whisk broom, ready for finding. Get in the wine cellar. Latch the door, he said. May be East Dominique, John. Hell it is. She knew he was right. They had driven Dominique to the church an hour ago in the wagon. Her daughter would never walk back home by herself, and not just because of the miles distance between their house and the church. Sample complete. Ready to continue?