Read Online Gravestone by Travis Thrasher - Free Book Online Page B
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
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room. I’m walking down Heartland Trail, the opposite way from where it comes in through the forest off the main road. If I were forced at gunpoint to show on a map exactly where I was, I’m pretty confident the gun would end up going off. I don’t know if Heartland Trail leads to anything other than a dead end. But I don’t want to chance heading the other way and being picked up by someone asking me why I’m leaving.
The road drops away from the cleared-out section of trees and the hill the church stands on. Soon I find myself following the road through dense forest again, leafless trees that are massive and ancient looking.
What are you doing, man?
I don’t know.
I really don’t know.
I wanted to go to church to get some answers, and I only scampered out with more questions.
If you had a little more guts maybe you would’ve stuck around.
But the guts thing hasn’t been working so far, has it? I got a gun and tried to do what I was supposed to do—warn away the gang of hooded weirdos in the middle of the countryside. I tried to stop them. I tried to get to her.
I tried. I really tried.
I feel tears on the edges of my cheeks and claw at them to get them off my face. I’m tired of tears. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of this moping, this sad sadness.
After walking for twenty minutes or so, as the paved road becomes a dirt lane, I have a feeling of déjà vu. I don’t know why. But this looks and feels familiar.
I soon reach the dead end of the road at the edge of the forest. For some reason, even though it’s sunny out today, the woods in front of me appear darker and denser. I’m half tempted to head into them to see where they take me, but I have no idea if they’ll ever end. I can see myself getting lost and wandering around for days.
Doubt many people around here would mind.
It feels colder where I’m standing, the wind a little stronger. I shiver and look into the shade of the trees in front of me.
I wonder if someone is in there, watching me.
Someone or something.
I turn to head back down Heartland Trail.
Maybe by the time I make it back to church, the service will be over and I can still catch my ride home with Ray.
Something itches at me to turn around one last time before the road veers around the corner.
As I do, I suddenly recognize where I’ve seen this before.
The magazine clipping from Jocelyn’s locker. The one that turned up in mine with the handwritten quote on it.
The line from the Robert Frost poem.
I looked it up. Should’ve recognized it. If it had been a song lyric, maybe I would have.
This is the image. The only difference is the time of year the photo was taken.
Why did someone take a photo of this place? And more importantly, why was it in my locker?
So many questions, I think, as I see the church nearing.
So many questions and so few answers.
20. Below
The cabin feels quarantined. Midnight is there on the couch, but Mom is nowhere to be found. It takes a while to find the note.
Hey Chris.
Will be home late. Helping out at work.
Mom
I look at the note for a while, find a pen and doodle little happy faces all over it. It soon resembles a crowd of people laughing. I can’t tell if they’re laughing at me or at my mom.
I find some lunch and eat it while I watch television. But I don’t really pay attention. I’m staring at moving pictures and hearing noise and voices, but I’m really somewhere far away.
My eyes move to the windows. I can see the sky and the mountains in the distance. I scan the room, feel the hard couch, move the cushion to get more comfortable, flip through forty channels.
I wonder about this restlessness. The way I feel. Trapped. Wounded. Hurt. Imprisoned.
God wouldn’t do this to someone, Jocelyn. He couldn’t.
If this were a postcard sent to heaven, I’d add a third rhyming line.
He shouldn’t.
But I don’t know anything. I look at the walls and wonder if somehow my life is getting smaller, duller. Most
The road drops away from the cleared-out section of trees and the hill the church stands on. Soon I find myself following the road through dense forest again, leafless trees that are massive and ancient looking.
What are you doing, man?
I don’t know.
I really don’t know.
I wanted to go to church to get some answers, and I only scampered out with more questions.
If you had a little more guts maybe you would’ve stuck around.
But the guts thing hasn’t been working so far, has it? I got a gun and tried to do what I was supposed to do—warn away the gang of hooded weirdos in the middle of the countryside. I tried to stop them. I tried to get to her.
I tried. I really tried.
I feel tears on the edges of my cheeks and claw at them to get them off my face. I’m tired of tears. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of this moping, this sad sadness.
After walking for twenty minutes or so, as the paved road becomes a dirt lane, I have a feeling of déjà vu. I don’t know why. But this looks and feels familiar.
I soon reach the dead end of the road at the edge of the forest. For some reason, even though it’s sunny out today, the woods in front of me appear darker and denser. I’m half tempted to head into them to see where they take me, but I have no idea if they’ll ever end. I can see myself getting lost and wandering around for days.
Doubt many people around here would mind.
It feels colder where I’m standing, the wind a little stronger. I shiver and look into the shade of the trees in front of me.
I wonder if someone is in there, watching me.
Someone or something.
I turn to head back down Heartland Trail.
Maybe by the time I make it back to church, the service will be over and I can still catch my ride home with Ray.
Something itches at me to turn around one last time before the road veers around the corner.
As I do, I suddenly recognize where I’ve seen this before.
The magazine clipping from Jocelyn’s locker. The one that turned up in mine with the handwritten quote on it.
The line from the Robert Frost poem.
I looked it up. Should’ve recognized it. If it had been a song lyric, maybe I would have.
This is the image. The only difference is the time of year the photo was taken.
Why did someone take a photo of this place? And more importantly, why was it in my locker?
So many questions, I think, as I see the church nearing.
So many questions and so few answers.
20. Below
The cabin feels quarantined. Midnight is there on the couch, but Mom is nowhere to be found. It takes a while to find the note.
Hey Chris.
Will be home late. Helping out at work.
Mom
I look at the note for a while, find a pen and doodle little happy faces all over it. It soon resembles a crowd of people laughing. I can’t tell if they’re laughing at me or at my mom.
I find some lunch and eat it while I watch television. But I don’t really pay attention. I’m staring at moving pictures and hearing noise and voices, but I’m really somewhere far away.
My eyes move to the windows. I can see the sky and the mountains in the distance. I scan the room, feel the hard couch, move the cushion to get more comfortable, flip through forty channels.
I wonder about this restlessness. The way I feel. Trapped. Wounded. Hurt. Imprisoned.
God wouldn’t do this to someone, Jocelyn. He couldn’t.
If this were a postcard sent to heaven, I’d add a third rhyming line.
He shouldn’t.
But I don’t know anything. I look at the walls and wonder if somehow my life is getting smaller, duller. Most
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