Read Online Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) by Kory M. Shrum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kory M. Shrum
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good look.
It’s one of my T-shirts—bloody and torn and one of my shoes, smushed flat, both wrapped around a brick which I’m assuming is what broke the window. The shirt and shoe I recognize. They came from two different jobs, but they were both lost during replacements. On the shirt, written in blood—and this is when I start praying it isn’t my blood—someone has written a short, but clear message:
“Closer than you think,” I say.
Close enough to snatch the clothes off my dead body.
“Yeah, that’s not creepy.”
Crash .
I scream and jump back but trip over my stupid dog. I reach out to catch my fall and let go of the brick at the same time. The dog yells as I step on him and I hit the floor hard just after he scampers out of range. Then the brick comes down. I slide my forearm on shattered glass when I yank away from the explosion of pain as the brick connects with my knee.
My arm burns. An angry red welt rises to the surface as a tuff of torn flesh fills up with blood. My knee burns too where the brick fell on it, but my jeans have protected the skin, so what I feel instead is the dull throb of impact.
Winston is okay. He’s trying to climb on top of me as I lean on my uninjured elbow and inspect myself. I say more than a few words that are as ladylike as a sailor’s whore.
I am even more pissed when I realize it was just a piece of glass that had fallen from the shattered pane that made the noise in the first place. But it freaking terrified me.
Winston is jumping up and down trying to lick my face.
“I’m okay,” I say, pushing him away but he just won’t give up. “Gee- zus . Fine. Fine . Come here.”
I pick up the dog like he wants, but God, he’s heavy.
But there is something else wrong. It isn’t until my heart slows from a jack rabbit pace to something like mild cardio that I realize the silence in my house. Pure silence . I manage to pull myself together onto my feet and shuffle into the living room. I check a couple of light switches and my suspicions prove true.
I’d blasted it—every single light in the house is blown—and everything else probably.
With no lights and threats written in blood, it’s time to get the hell out. I decide not to check upstairs but instead I put Winston in the car and drive to Gloria’s. Brinkley wants me to pay her a visit anyway and there’s no time like the present. I’m almost to Gloria’s when I realize I should’ve left a note, in case Ally or Lane came by.
Whoops. If they do I’ll certainly get a call.
Gloria lives in Nashville proper, in a little neighborhood of one-story houses. Her house looks like a face. Two front windows for eyes and a door for a nose-mouth. It’s brick with peeling shutters. It has some wrought iron for a nice touch, but the paint on the wrought iron is peeling. Her grass is uncut and probably houses a million-strong rabbit colony.
Still shaking, I knock and knock but no answer, so I use my spare key to let myself in.
In the creepy basement is where I find her. She’s sitting at a long desk, a massive beast that stretches from one corner all the way to the water heater, the entire length of the wall, like a cafeteria table, with its hard fake wood top and metal corners. Her back is to the rickety wooden stairs, creaking as I make my descent clutching the pug. A light swings over my head, swaying a little with the unsettled house. All over the concrete walls are pictures, taped with chunks of duct tape to the painted cinder blocks beneath them.
By the time protective custody was started, the military had just finished conducting ESP research to see if they could develop psychic warfare. This research was discontinued, but what came out of it was remote-viewing. I’m not making this shit up. Google it: remote-viewing.
They experimented and tortured the elite soldiers they pulled from their ranks until the ones that weren’t brain damaged to the point of death became discharged outcasts with little
It’s one of my T-shirts—bloody and torn and one of my shoes, smushed flat, both wrapped around a brick which I’m assuming is what broke the window. The shirt and shoe I recognize. They came from two different jobs, but they were both lost during replacements. On the shirt, written in blood—and this is when I start praying it isn’t my blood—someone has written a short, but clear message:
“Closer than you think,” I say.
Close enough to snatch the clothes off my dead body.
“Yeah, that’s not creepy.”
Crash .
I scream and jump back but trip over my stupid dog. I reach out to catch my fall and let go of the brick at the same time. The dog yells as I step on him and I hit the floor hard just after he scampers out of range. Then the brick comes down. I slide my forearm on shattered glass when I yank away from the explosion of pain as the brick connects with my knee.
My arm burns. An angry red welt rises to the surface as a tuff of torn flesh fills up with blood. My knee burns too where the brick fell on it, but my jeans have protected the skin, so what I feel instead is the dull throb of impact.
Winston is okay. He’s trying to climb on top of me as I lean on my uninjured elbow and inspect myself. I say more than a few words that are as ladylike as a sailor’s whore.
I am even more pissed when I realize it was just a piece of glass that had fallen from the shattered pane that made the noise in the first place. But it freaking terrified me.
Winston is jumping up and down trying to lick my face.
“I’m okay,” I say, pushing him away but he just won’t give up. “Gee- zus . Fine. Fine . Come here.”
I pick up the dog like he wants, but God, he’s heavy.
But there is something else wrong. It isn’t until my heart slows from a jack rabbit pace to something like mild cardio that I realize the silence in my house. Pure silence . I manage to pull myself together onto my feet and shuffle into the living room. I check a couple of light switches and my suspicions prove true.
I’d blasted it—every single light in the house is blown—and everything else probably.
With no lights and threats written in blood, it’s time to get the hell out. I decide not to check upstairs but instead I put Winston in the car and drive to Gloria’s. Brinkley wants me to pay her a visit anyway and there’s no time like the present. I’m almost to Gloria’s when I realize I should’ve left a note, in case Ally or Lane came by.
Whoops. If they do I’ll certainly get a call.
Gloria lives in Nashville proper, in a little neighborhood of one-story houses. Her house looks like a face. Two front windows for eyes and a door for a nose-mouth. It’s brick with peeling shutters. It has some wrought iron for a nice touch, but the paint on the wrought iron is peeling. Her grass is uncut and probably houses a million-strong rabbit colony.
Still shaking, I knock and knock but no answer, so I use my spare key to let myself in.
In the creepy basement is where I find her. She’s sitting at a long desk, a massive beast that stretches from one corner all the way to the water heater, the entire length of the wall, like a cafeteria table, with its hard fake wood top and metal corners. Her back is to the rickety wooden stairs, creaking as I make my descent clutching the pug. A light swings over my head, swaying a little with the unsettled house. All over the concrete walls are pictures, taped with chunks of duct tape to the painted cinder blocks beneath them.
By the time protective custody was started, the military had just finished conducting ESP research to see if they could develop psychic warfare. This research was discontinued, but what came out of it was remote-viewing. I’m not making this shit up. Google it: remote-viewing.
They experimented and tortured the elite soldiers they pulled from their ranks until the ones that weren’t brain damaged to the point of death became discharged outcasts with little
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