Read Online Gravestone by Travis Thrasher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Travis Thrasher
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Suspense, Fantasy, Mystery, Twilight, Young Adult, High School, teen, forest, Chris Buckley, Solitary, Jocelyn, pastor, Ted Dekker, Bluebird, tunnels, Travis Thrasher
Ads: Link
or pictures of Noah and his big boat. This hallway is stark, even with the lighting. There is one door at the end of it.
For a minute I consider going back. I know I’m not heading the right way.
But what’s behind this door?
I’m curious, and I’m safe because I’m not a cat. Right?
I get to the door and try the handle. It opens easily.
For a brief second, as my eyes see nothing but darkness in the room in front of me, I picture figures in robes standing in the dead of night.
Stop it, Chris.
It’s very cold inside. I take a breath and can taste the musty air, as if nobody has stepped foot inside here in a while.
I move to the edge of the doorway and feel against the wall. Nothing. Then I try the other wall and find a light switch. Dim fluorescent lights fill the space before me in a strained glow.
It’s a large room, apparently used for storage, though the first thing I see isn’t extremely comforting.
It’s a long black coffin.
I do a double take, thinking it’s just my eyes playing a trick on me. But no, it’s really a coffin, placed on some kind of stand that looks like an antique.
Okay, enough seen, now it’s time to go bye-bye.
The door closes behind me.
I look around with wonder and fascination and quite a bit of fear.
I suppose the stuff in this room could be found in a church anywhere, though I’ve never heard of keeping a spare coffin on hand, but then again it all feels just a tad bit off.
There are several thick wooden pulpits all in a row. A painting on its side, about as big as I am, that depicts what looks like a couple being interrogated by an angel. A bunch of chairs, all different types from different years. Some instruments.
What is that?
Beyond the coffin in the dim light of the corner of this room is some kind of—
Is that a statue?
I squint my eyes and try to make it out.
I think of crazy Aunt Alice who Mom and I visited, and remember that mannequin sitting in her living room.
This isn’t a mannequin or a statue. This is more of a wax figure.
How do you know it’s not real?
But the hands are outstretched and not moving and it looks exactly like Pastor Marsh.
I laugh. Who would make a wax figure of the pastor? And why?
I step closer to the thing. It’s standing in the corner, the arms firmly in place as if he’s making a point, the smile just like the one I saw a few minutes ago, the black glasses the same.
I inch forward a little more, expecting to see the smile bend or the hands shift.
Get out of here, Chris.
I reach the thing and touch it, expecting to feel warm skin. But it’s just hard plastic or whatever the material is.
I study it, trying to see if this is some kind of joke, wondering why someone would go to the trouble of making this.
Behind me something shifts.
Then I hear a sucking sound, and I turn and see motion behind me. A few feet away, the top of the coffin is open—
And that’s when I bolt without seeing or hearing anything else.
My shirt gets stuck on something, and I howl because I half expect it to be the wax figure grabbing me. But it’s just a coat rack.
The sucking sound, it’s someone gasping it’s someone choking desperate for air.
I reach the door and tear out of the room without shutting off the light. By the time I reach the end of the hallway, I try to get composed and calm.
But I’m soaked in sweat and probably look like a possessed man.
I go back into the bathroom and close the door to a stall and stand there for a few minutes, breathing in and letting my heart slow down and shaking my head in disbelief.
19. The End of the Road
This road is called Heartland Trail. I wonder if the founders were playing a practical joke with that one. Or if it has a deeper, more sinister meaning.
Or maybe it’s just another street name.
I’m walking to warm myself as I head away from the church, away from the pastor and the greeters and the music and the smiles and whatever the heck I just saw downstairs in the storage
For a minute I consider going back. I know I’m not heading the right way.
But what’s behind this door?
I’m curious, and I’m safe because I’m not a cat. Right?
I get to the door and try the handle. It opens easily.
For a brief second, as my eyes see nothing but darkness in the room in front of me, I picture figures in robes standing in the dead of night.
Stop it, Chris.
It’s very cold inside. I take a breath and can taste the musty air, as if nobody has stepped foot inside here in a while.
I move to the edge of the doorway and feel against the wall. Nothing. Then I try the other wall and find a light switch. Dim fluorescent lights fill the space before me in a strained glow.
It’s a large room, apparently used for storage, though the first thing I see isn’t extremely comforting.
It’s a long black coffin.
I do a double take, thinking it’s just my eyes playing a trick on me. But no, it’s really a coffin, placed on some kind of stand that looks like an antique.
Okay, enough seen, now it’s time to go bye-bye.
The door closes behind me.
I look around with wonder and fascination and quite a bit of fear.
I suppose the stuff in this room could be found in a church anywhere, though I’ve never heard of keeping a spare coffin on hand, but then again it all feels just a tad bit off.
There are several thick wooden pulpits all in a row. A painting on its side, about as big as I am, that depicts what looks like a couple being interrogated by an angel. A bunch of chairs, all different types from different years. Some instruments.
What is that?
Beyond the coffin in the dim light of the corner of this room is some kind of—
Is that a statue?
I squint my eyes and try to make it out.
I think of crazy Aunt Alice who Mom and I visited, and remember that mannequin sitting in her living room.
This isn’t a mannequin or a statue. This is more of a wax figure.
How do you know it’s not real?
But the hands are outstretched and not moving and it looks exactly like Pastor Marsh.
I laugh. Who would make a wax figure of the pastor? And why?
I step closer to the thing. It’s standing in the corner, the arms firmly in place as if he’s making a point, the smile just like the one I saw a few minutes ago, the black glasses the same.
I inch forward a little more, expecting to see the smile bend or the hands shift.
Get out of here, Chris.
I reach the thing and touch it, expecting to feel warm skin. But it’s just hard plastic or whatever the material is.
I study it, trying to see if this is some kind of joke, wondering why someone would go to the trouble of making this.
Behind me something shifts.
Then I hear a sucking sound, and I turn and see motion behind me. A few feet away, the top of the coffin is open—
And that’s when I bolt without seeing or hearing anything else.
My shirt gets stuck on something, and I howl because I half expect it to be the wax figure grabbing me. But it’s just a coat rack.
The sucking sound, it’s someone gasping it’s someone choking desperate for air.
I reach the door and tear out of the room without shutting off the light. By the time I reach the end of the hallway, I try to get composed and calm.
But I’m soaked in sweat and probably look like a possessed man.
I go back into the bathroom and close the door to a stall and stand there for a few minutes, breathing in and letting my heart slow down and shaking my head in disbelief.
19. The End of the Road
This road is called Heartland Trail. I wonder if the founders were playing a practical joke with that one. Or if it has a deeper, more sinister meaning.
Or maybe it’s just another street name.
I’m walking to warm myself as I head away from the church, away from the pastor and the greeters and the music and the smiles and whatever the heck I just saw downstairs in the storage
Similar Books
