Read Online Echoes of Darkness by Rob Smales - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rob Smales
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Hillary began, but the words stopped, breathing stopped, the whole world stopped as Hillary’s eyes widened and all the fear the fog had kept at bay was unleashed all at once.
Mrs. Redfern’s face . . . changed .
Stretched.
Pushed forward.
The breath Hillary had intended to fuel her words came out in all in a rush with a sound like a steam whistle. She stumbled back, away from the apparition that took a step toward her. Her foot slipped in the still-warm puddle of vomit and she fell, landing in the little space between the dumpsters once more, the cement biting and scratching at her hands and backside as she scrambled away from the advancing nightmare. Out in the alley Valerie continued to cry, louder now, as if trying to drown out what was going on behind her. In the mouth of the small cave formed by the dumpsters, the creature wept, tears streaming from the still-human eyes set in its misshapen, hairy nightmare face. Black lips skinned back from white teeth. Jaws cracked open and a black tongue writhed. Sounds issued forth from the terrible jaws: not growling, but four distinct sounds that might have been individual syllables had they been issued from a human throat.
No one can know.
The weeping nightmare crouched forward, crowding its bulk into the small space, easing in like a wolf into its den. Hillary began to scream.
She did not scream for long.
IN FULL MEASURE
Eva stared in wonder at the man on her front porch, the smell of Father’s sickroom clinging to her clothes. She was still breathless from running down the stairs to halt the pounding that had begun and not stopped, loud enough to disturb Father even in his swoon.
Had it been, as she’d expected, some rude youth, perhaps with knocking fist still raised, she was fully prepared to offer up a sharp lesson in visiting etiquette. Yanking the door open to find an elderly dandy, barely higher than her own chin though dressed in (according to Sears and Roebuck) the very height of fashion, well, it quite took the wind out of her sails. She noticed he clutched a large, buff-colored envelope in both small hands.
Now how in the world did he pound like that with both hands full? she wondered, then noticed the muddy streaks marring the bottom of her door.
“I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please,” the little man said, his voice high, nasal, and imperious.
Eva merely stared at his soaked and mud-covered (though still stylish) left shoe. Then at the single-horse buckboard in front of her house, right next to what had to be the only mud puddle left in the county. Then back at the marks on her door.
“Did you kick my door?”
“I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please.”
The little old bandy cock had raised his voice, over-enunciating as if speaking to a thick-witted child; annoyance welled up in Eva, firmly pushing aside her disbelief. She spoke just as clearly as he had.
“No. You won’t.”
“I will,” he said, stepping forward as if to actually enter the house uninvited. Rather than retreating, as he’d obviously expected, Eva stood tall and folded her arms across her chest, physically barring entry to the door-kicking little savage.
Devin nearly overbalanced, coming up on his toes to stop his forward momentum as he realized this little strumpet was not stepping back as she should have. He’d been thrown off-kilter by the mud puddle and had been venting his annoyance by kicking the farmhouse door when it had suddenly opened to reveal this . . . girl.
He had gotten a description of Wilbur Clarke back in town: an older man with gnarled hands, broad shoulders, and a sunbaked face both creased and leathery. He had not expected beautiful, honey-blond hair and flawless, sun-bronzed skin. She was such a surprise he merely gaped, his reason for being there in the first place knocked clean out of his mind. Then she inspected the mud he’d left on her door, and a strange panic struck him—a youthful, confusing
Mrs. Redfern’s face . . . changed .
Stretched.
Pushed forward.
The breath Hillary had intended to fuel her words came out in all in a rush with a sound like a steam whistle. She stumbled back, away from the apparition that took a step toward her. Her foot slipped in the still-warm puddle of vomit and she fell, landing in the little space between the dumpsters once more, the cement biting and scratching at her hands and backside as she scrambled away from the advancing nightmare. Out in the alley Valerie continued to cry, louder now, as if trying to drown out what was going on behind her. In the mouth of the small cave formed by the dumpsters, the creature wept, tears streaming from the still-human eyes set in its misshapen, hairy nightmare face. Black lips skinned back from white teeth. Jaws cracked open and a black tongue writhed. Sounds issued forth from the terrible jaws: not growling, but four distinct sounds that might have been individual syllables had they been issued from a human throat.
No one can know.
The weeping nightmare crouched forward, crowding its bulk into the small space, easing in like a wolf into its den. Hillary began to scream.
She did not scream for long.
IN FULL MEASURE
Eva stared in wonder at the man on her front porch, the smell of Father’s sickroom clinging to her clothes. She was still breathless from running down the stairs to halt the pounding that had begun and not stopped, loud enough to disturb Father even in his swoon.
Had it been, as she’d expected, some rude youth, perhaps with knocking fist still raised, she was fully prepared to offer up a sharp lesson in visiting etiquette. Yanking the door open to find an elderly dandy, barely higher than her own chin though dressed in (according to Sears and Roebuck) the very height of fashion, well, it quite took the wind out of her sails. She noticed he clutched a large, buff-colored envelope in both small hands.
Now how in the world did he pound like that with both hands full? she wondered, then noticed the muddy streaks marring the bottom of her door.
“I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please,” the little man said, his voice high, nasal, and imperious.
Eva merely stared at his soaked and mud-covered (though still stylish) left shoe. Then at the single-horse buckboard in front of her house, right next to what had to be the only mud puddle left in the county. Then back at the marks on her door.
“Did you kick my door?”
“I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please.”
The little old bandy cock had raised his voice, over-enunciating as if speaking to a thick-witted child; annoyance welled up in Eva, firmly pushing aside her disbelief. She spoke just as clearly as he had.
“No. You won’t.”
“I will,” he said, stepping forward as if to actually enter the house uninvited. Rather than retreating, as he’d obviously expected, Eva stood tall and folded her arms across her chest, physically barring entry to the door-kicking little savage.
Devin nearly overbalanced, coming up on his toes to stop his forward momentum as he realized this little strumpet was not stepping back as she should have. He’d been thrown off-kilter by the mud puddle and had been venting his annoyance by kicking the farmhouse door when it had suddenly opened to reveal this . . . girl.
He had gotten a description of Wilbur Clarke back in town: an older man with gnarled hands, broad shoulders, and a sunbaked face both creased and leathery. He had not expected beautiful, honey-blond hair and flawless, sun-bronzed skin. She was such a surprise he merely gaped, his reason for being there in the first place knocked clean out of his mind. Then she inspected the mud he’d left on her door, and a strange panic struck him—a youthful, confusing
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