 We welcome Ginger Nutter, Amber Logan to the site to mark the cover reveal of her new novel, The Secret Garden of Yanagi Inn, along with an exclusive excerpt from her novel. You can find the gorgeous cover after the excerpt. Cracked doesn’t always mean broken. Grieving her mother’s death, Mari Lennox travels to Kyoto, Japan to take photographs of Yanagi Inn for a client. As she explores the inn and its grounds, her camera captures striking images, uncovering layers of mystery shrouding the old resort—including an overgrown, secret garden on a forbidden island. But then eerie weeping no one else in the inn seems to hear starts keeping her awake at night. excerptI jolted awake when the car came to a stop after its long, silent drive. The two front doors closed with solid thuds, but I sat alone in the dark for a moment longer, groggy, and disoriented. The car jostled as the driver unloaded my bags from the trunk, and Ogura-san’s cold figure disappeared inside the inn. I grabbed my camera bag and scrambled out of the car. The moment I stepped out into the night, the cold air hit me like a slap to the face. I’d been wrong to think that surviving Chicago winters would make everything else feel warm by comparison, but at least this cold came with an invigorating crispness found only in areas far from airports and population density; it reminded me of camping. I spun in a slow circle and no streetlights or storefronts or neighbors interrupted my view of the black night. I breathed in deeply, until a shiver wracked my body. The building in front of me was traditional, wooden, with a single-story, peaked roof. The structure itself was almost entirely obscured by overgrown, wayward bushes, as if nature itself was bent on swallowing the property whole. The only illumination, save for the pallid moonlight, came from a worn red paper lantern hanging from the covered entrance, shedding its feeble light on walls that were corroded, peeling, as if made of aging parchment. I was reminded of an art exhibit I’d seen years ago. The gallery’s walls had been covered with large, unsettling photographs of small-town haunted houses, the kind of properties that were only mentioned in whispers and that spawned urban legends. This façade was so forsaken, and so vastly different from the grand entranceway I had envisioned, that I began to wonder whether there’d been a mistake. But then I saw it—a battered wooden sign hanging by the front doors, carved with the name “Yanagi Inn,” and my stomach sank. I was in the right place. The driver was standing beside me, luggage in hand, waiting. I ducked my head in apology (what was I apologizing for?) and followed him down the short path to the inn’s entrance. The granite walkway was lined with rounded black stones, the rock beds so infested by weeds I feared stepping off the path lest they reach out to trip me. There were no signs of life or movement, no other sounds besides our own hollow footsteps as we approached the inn. Inside, all was silent and still. We walked through the sparse lobby, with its musty scent and smattering of chairs that looked to be from the 1970s. We passed an unmanned front desk with a worn leather guestbook on the counter and a wall of framed newspaper reviews behind it. We only paused to remove our shoes where the tiled floors of the lobby stepped up to a raised level of tatami matting. The hallways were dimly lit, and the dry scent of dust and heating elements permeated the air. No one spoke. I followed the driver in socked feet, and he dragged my luggage through the narrow halls, following Ogura-san, although I couldn't see her. The silence was unnerving, accustomed as I was to the near constant commotion of living in a South Loop Chicago high-rise with thin walls and energetic neighbors. But this silence wasn't the quiet found in relaxing vacation spots; it was more like being trapped in a jar with a lid dampening all outside noise. A muted, deadened soundlessness which made me step even more lightly so I wouldn't be the monster to disrupt it. I half expected to turn the corner and encounter the creepy twin girls from The Shining. I shuddered; why had I let Thad convince me to watch that movie? After a few turns we came to an abrupt stop and found Ogura-san standing in front of an open door. The driver placed my luggage inside, bowed, and disappeared down the hall before I had a chance to properly thank him. I was loath to break the silence anyways. A teenaged maid, dressed in a paler blue version of Ogura-san’s kimono, was bustling about the room. She had pushed aside a low table laden with small, covered bowls and was laying out a futon and bedding on the tatami matting. "Yuna-chan," Ogura-san broke the silence with a stern tone. "Lennox-san would like to retire now." Yuna spun around, apparently unaware that she had company. Her long ponytail slipped over her shoulder as she bowed. "Good evening, Lennox-san," she said in heavily accented English. I glanced over my shoulder; Ogura-san had already disappeared down the hall. "Oh, you can call me Mari," I replied softly in Japanese. A smile of relief spread across Yuna's round, youthful face as she straightened. "You speak Japanese?" She spoke in a slight dialect, one I didn’t recognize. I returned her smile, though I’m sure it looked tired, strained. "I spent a lot of my childhood here." Yuna's brow furrowed slightly as she took in my frizzy light brown hair and hazel eyes. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you're not half-Japanese, right?" I chuckled and waved a hand in front of my face. "No. My family lived outside Yokohama because my father was an American expat working for Toshiba.” I set my camera bag on the floor, rolled my shoulders to relieve the strain. “I went to an international school, but my parents refused to live in an expat haven, so we lived in a normal neighborhood, had Japanese friends.” "Oh. Why did you move back to America?" I froze. Did I really want to get into all that right now, with a complete stranger, no less? I looked at my watch, hoping maybe the girl would take the hint. "Well, my parents separated and—" "Yuna-chan." The dark specter of Ogura-san reappeared in the doorway. "I'm sure our guest would like to retire for the evening." Good god, yes, thank you. I never thought I’d be relieved to see Ogura-san again. "Of course, Ogura-san." Yuna's face flushed, and she hurried to arrange the bedding. "What time would you like me to bring breakfast?" "I don't even know what time it is now," I said with a sigh. "I'm sure my sleep schedule will be off. How about nine?" I heard a quiet “Tsk” sound behind me. I turned, but Ogura-san was gone. Yuna nodded, either ignoring or not noticing Ogura-san’s disdain. She showed me the notecard with wifi information, then lifted the lids off the bowls on the table to reveal a variety of individually wrapped rice crackers and, I realized with a pang to my heart, mandarins. "I'm sorry we didn't have a meal ready for you. The kitchen was already shut down." I walked Yuna to the door. "No worries, I certainly understand. My apologies for arriving so late. I hope I haven't disturbed any other guests." I was reminded of the eerie silence of the dark hallways I'd walked down. Were there any other guests? "Oh, no need to worry about that." Yuna waved a hand in front of her face and chuckled. "Well, good night...Mari-san." She winked and left the room, sliding the door closed behind her. I sank into the floor chair beside the table. She seemed like a nice girl, and it was good to have a friendly face here in this foreboding environment, but I had no more energy left to maintain a pleasant façade. I picked up a mandarin, but then replaced it in the bowl. Their presence was just a coincidence, but it still unnerved me. Instead, I unwrapped a large rice cracker and enjoyed a savory, if slightly stale, bite. I let my gaze roam around the room. Why did a teenager even work in a dilapidated place like this? A low table with a scuffed black top and two matching floor chairs, each with a threadbare red cushion. A single futon mattress with old-fashioned floral bedding laid out on the tatami floor, a standing paper lamp beside it. Several sliding doors leading to a private bathroom, a closet, and presumably out to a veranda. The room’s only decorations were a scroll painted with a stylized kanji symbol and a vase of fresh pine branches, red winter berries, and bright white chrysanthemums. At least the flowers were fresh and new. The space felt more like some forsaken grandmother’s house than the esteemed ryokan I’d envisioned, but at least it was clean. After a quick stop in the bathroom (with its disappointingly regular Western toilet), I stripped off the cardigan and jeans I'd been wearing for god knows how many hours and stared in the mirror. Bags under my eyes, my hair a stringy mess, my face greasy. Too angular, haggard. I looked like shit. If only I could blame it all on international travel. Too tired for a shower, I threw on pajamas and switched off the shoji paper lamp. When I flopped down on the futon it emitted a faint floral scent, just as you’d expect at a grandmother’s house. The mattress was firm, perfect really—the kind of bed I'd always wanted to sleep on when we lived in Japan, but Risa and I both had frilly pink princess-themed canopy beds—which Risa loved. But I didn’t. My body was heavy, sluggish, but my mind wouldn’t stop whirling. I was in Japan again, after so many years. I would wake up tomorrow in a strange bed with new surroundings, new obligations, new people, and… I needed my sleeping pills. But no, Risa had given me a hard look when she’d found the bottle in my luggage and handed me the bag of melatonin lozenges instead. But I’ve always hated having something in my mouth when I’m trying to sleep. It feels like an obvious choking hazard, like giving a grape to an active toddler. Whatever. I closed my eyes, practiced my breathing exercises again. Breathe in, one-two-three, breathe out, one-two-three. My heart rate slowed, my mind settled. I focused on the silence in the room. Somewhere a clock tick, ticked away the seconds. I started to drift off into a fuzzy realm filled with the steady hum of airplane engines and the quiet rustles of a hundred passengers shifting in uncomfortable seats when another sound invaded my mind. A low, mournful keening. It sounded like a far-off wounded animal, a whining dog. This was an isolated place—could there be coyotes? My eyes opened slowly. Were there even coyotes in Japan? I held my breath, listened with ears attuned to the eerie, distant sound. No, it wasn’t a howl. Was someone crying? Mom. I was a child again, lying in my princess canopy bed, pillow pressed against my ears to block out the sound. A whimper in the matching bed against the far wall; Risa must’ve heard it, too. ‘Go to sleep, Risa,’ I whispered, and she fell silent. But the weeping from our mother’s room continued… It’s not Mom, Mari. I squeezed my eyes shut. My thoughts flew, perhaps rashly, to the young maid. As I strained to hear the whimpers filtering through the thin walls of my room, I clenched my jaw to keep my own emotions in check; I'd spent too many nights balanced on the brink of inconsolable tears not to relate. Yet what would a young girl like Yuna (for she couldn't be older than 16 or 17) be doing in a place like this so late at night? Did she live here? I opened my eyes again, stared at the dark ceiling somewhere above me. Maybe the cries really weren’t human—a fox? Some kind of bird? Or maybe they were just in my mind—childhood memories, emotional projections. Or premonitions.   Cracked doesn’t always mean broken. Grieving her mother’s death, Mari Lennox travels to Kyoto, Japan to take photographs of Yanagi Inn for a client. As she explores the inn and its grounds, her camera captures striking images, uncovering layers of mystery shrouding the old resort—including an overgrown, secret garden on a forbidden island. But then eerie weeping no one else in the inn seems to hear starts keeping her awake at night. Despite the warnings of the staff, Mari searches the deep recesses of the old building to discover the source of the ghostly sound, only to realize that her own family’s history is tied to the inn, its mysterious, forlorn garden . . . and the secrets it holds. Amber A. Logan Author Bio: Amber A. Logan is a university instructor, freelance editor, and author of speculative fiction living in Kansas with her husband and two children—Fox and Willow. In addition to her degrees in Psychology, Liberal Arts, and International Relations, Amber holds a PhD in Creative Writing from Anglia Ruskin University in Cambridge. CHECK OUT TODAY'S OTHER HORROR ARTICLES
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