Publisher's blurb: Something in your gut tells you to run. Rushing across the farmland, you hear the voices of the chickens beginning to cry out in unison. They are chasing you down toward the farmhouse. Pumping your legs as hard as you can, you leap up onto the porch, throw back the old rusted screen, and step inside, slamming the door behind you. It is dark . . . and the old farmhouse is rundown, in shambles. Old boards lay over windows. Furniture is stacked up against doors. In the center of the room, huddled around the fireplace, are the bones of a family . . . picked clean by chicken beaks.