Read Online Dead River by Cyn Balog - Free Book Online Page A

must have fried his brains, man.”
    I stare at him for a second. Something clicks in my mind. “Robert Skiffington was Australian?”
    “Well, no. He was born here. But he lived there awhile or something.” He laughs. “Man, I miss him. We keep wondering when he’s coming back.”
    Somehow, even though a thin drizzle is still falling, I see the early light of dawn poking through the trees behind the Outfitters office building. I see a wiry man, setting off with hiking boots and a backpack that is half his size slung behind him. I see him stop to gaze out on the river as the shadows of the trees stretch in the new pink-orange light. His eyes mist over. Well, I’m not going to be seeing you, my dear, for a while .
    And then, not a moment later,
    What the devil is that?
    And suddenly I know something, almost as sure as I know my own name. I know that two years ago, Robert Skiffington left with his pack, hiking up toward the Appalachian Trail. I know that he saw a cold white hand protruding from the water in the shadows of the dawn. I know that he said What the devil is that? before sliding down the embankment, hishead thudding against a log with a sickly crack as his hand reached for that white limb, only to find the solid, completely inhuman material of a mannequin form, before he faded out of consciousness.
    And I know he’s not coming back. Because the truth is, he never left.

Chapter Seven
    O kay , I tell myself. Breathe .
    This has got to be my imagination. Robert Skiffington is very much alive, hiking the Appalachian Trail somewhere miles away from here.
    Isn’t he?
    I exhale as the vision subsides, but my eyes immediately dart to the side, to something I know does not belong. There, sitting where Angela should be, and wearing a prim white gown, is Lannie. She smiles through her tears. “Remember me, Tootsie?”
    At first I’m surprised I know her name, know anything at all about her, but then it all comes flooding back to me. She was one of my friends, one of my constant visions when I lived on the Delaware. She was always there with me, telling me stories about the summers she and her sister spent on the water. They’d go tubing and have picnics by the river, and it all seemed like so much fun. Lannie was the daring one, jumping into the river without a second thought, laughingendlessly at me whenever I tried to take things slow. I always wished she was my sister, because there were no other children where I lived and I desperately wanted other kids to play with. She was my one and only friend. My imaginary friend.
    “You’re not—Why are you—” I sputter, and then all at once she disappears and is replaced by that girl in the pink party dress, her eyes dark and hopeless.
    I’m snapped back to reality before she can open her mouth and spew mud. The waves churn around the raft, matching the tumult going on inside me. “What are you doing here?” I ask her, but by that time, she’s gone.
    Crack . I hear it again and again, that sickening sound of Robert’s skull smashing against a rock or a log or whatever. Always What the devil is that? followed a minute later by that horrifying sound that can only mean the end of Robert Skiffington’s life. He’s dead. Gone.
    And somehow, I’m the only one in the world who knows it.
    The whispers start. At first I think it’s nothing, the new spring leaves rustling gently around us. But eventually I can make out actual words. So many different voices, speaking at once. Asked … devil … you … A whirl of words, nonsensical ramblings, growing louder and louder, until they drown out all other sounds. Pain blooms in my forehead and doesn’t subside when I press my hand against my temple. Instead, the voices only grow stronger. Now I can almost make them out. I know that if they get any louder, my head is bound to explode.
    I turn around, still clutching the paddle. “Justin,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath. Somehow, though we’re in the