Have you ever felt the icy, cold touch of death brush the nape of your neck, as if a specter follows your every move in waking life and the dream world? Pete Richardson hasn't been afforded that kind of fortune. For him, the mundane merry-go-round of daily life is filled with the kind of paranoia that one would experience in the aftermath of immense tragedy.

On the surface, he's just a regular “joe” working a menial office job. He enjoys his morning coffee, an occasional snifter of brandy, and fraternizes with fellow neighbors on the impending demolition of their Brooklyn apartment building. He even has a front row seat to the wrecking ball outside his window.

Despite his skepticism, he follows the advice from friends and neighbors and searches for answers in places he doubts the most: horoscopes, Tarot readings, seances, and hypnosis. But he comes as close to discovering the truth as he does to hysteria.

All the while, an attorney from London, named Matthew Willow, makes landfall on U. S. soil and bounces from town to town, hot on the trail of the Tully family whose lineage dates back to the 1700s. His investigation drags him from New York to New Jersey and back, covering the ground like an archaeologist on the hunt for the holy grail.

It’s a story riddled with religious overtones, repressed memories, paganistic delight and even a little bit of the Latin language. They’re motifs that harken back to a time when monks and priests followed doctrines so strict that any maleficence would be deemed heresy. That is the time of Tully, an enigma wrapped in 18th century robes, and a character hidden from view but lurking in plain sight. Revenge really is a dish best served ice-cold.