Powdered Bones

For six months, antique shop owner Harold Tenbrook has not slept. Not for an hour. Not for ten minutes. Because every time he closes his eyes, John Mundy speaks-sometimes screaming, sometimes whispering, but never stopping.

It all began on a rainy Halloween night on New York's Lower East Side when a desperate, gaunt woman named Matilda traded a cardboard box of junk for twenty dollars. Among the worthless clutter was a small gray metal tin scratched with a name: John Mundy. Inside lay gray p...