Read Online Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller by Anthony O'Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony O'Brien
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left,
and the street name confirms that his intuition is correct. Before him is a
reality that shakes his convictions. The old wooden townhouse he saw in his
dream, painted in the Italianate palette of browns, greys and blues, stands
before him. As with all the other houses on the block, it's decaying just like
autumn leaves.
“You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Eve’s concerned;
Jeff doesn’t look well.
“What did I just say?” Even
as the words roll off his tongue, he feels guilt for his attitude.
“I was only asking.”
“I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I didn’t
mean to be snappy.”
“Don’t worry.” There’s
something wrong, she knows, but for now she’ll ignore it. “Which house is it?”
“This one.”
A young boy around the age
of nine, dressed in blue jeans, an over-sized black t-shirt, and a baseball cap
sits tapping the back of his shoes on the brick wall, watching as the white
folks step out onto the sidewalk. Jeff’s concerned about the rented car, and
for peace of mind decides to approach the child. The boy realizes with interest
that Jeff’s walking towards him, and slips off the wall.
“Hi. Would you like to earn
five dollars?”
“Maybe.” This boy’s earned
the right to be wary of strangers.
“Would you watch my car?”
“You gonna be long?”
“We shouldn’t be.” Jeff
senses mistrust. “We’ll be in that house.”
“Aimee’s.”
“You know her?”
“Yeah.” The boys guard
drops. “She’s a nice lady.”
“Okay. Any problems and
you’ll come and get me?”
“Sure.”
The small path leads up to
the house, and the old timber steps strain underfoot. Jeff’s already seen this
before in his dream, except he stood alone. Reaching out he pulls the door
knocker back, rapping three times; it’s an old door, but the thud is solid.
“Do you think she’s in?”
“Who knows? It would have
been easier if the phone line wasn’t still down.”
Jeff reaches out to knock again,
but hears movement behind the door. The bolt is drawn back and the rattle of a
chain precedes the door opening. A specter steps out, a specter with white
curly hair, a black shawl and gold rimmed spectacles, the look of Casey and
that all-knowing smile. Jeff’s speechless, unable to find any words. Realizing
something’s wrong, Eve takes the helm.
“Hi, we’re sorry to trouble
you. Mrs. Jones?”
“Yes.” Her voice holds the
lilt of New Orleans.
“Casey’s mom?”
“Casey. Oh I’m sorry, he’s
not here.”
“We understand that, Mrs.
Jones. It’s you we’d like to speak to.”
“Are you the cops?” Her
voice is guarded now, suspicious.
“No. We’re acting on behalf
of Casey. I’m his psychiatrist. We would like to ask you a few questions
regarding his gift.”
“I see. Can you help him?”
“I hope so.”
“Then you’d best come in,
but please, your identification first.”
“Of course.”
Once satisfied that Jeff and
Eve are who they claim to be, Mrs. Jones turns around and walks back into the
house, beckoning them to follow Eve turns to Jeff and whispers.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
Inside they are greeted with
a humble yet immaculately clean living room. The walls have a soothing floral
pattern, and the black cast iron fireplace proudly takes center stage. A
polished French dresser sits on the wood-stained floor, holding freshly cut
flowers beside photographs of people, and memories. A large wooden engraved
cross hangs on the wall, beside a framed photograph of Casey. He smiles in the
picture, watching over the proceedings, the ghost of a lost and loving son.
“Would you like a drink?”
“We had one just half an
hour ago.” Eve’s first impression is that Aimee is friendly. “But thank you for
offering.”
“Please sit down.”
They sit on the sofa. Jeff
looks around; the room is nothing like that of his dream. But he's sitting
opposite his premonition come to life.
“Mrs. Jones.” She looks
and the street name confirms that his intuition is correct. Before him is a
reality that shakes his convictions. The old wooden townhouse he saw in his
dream, painted in the Italianate palette of browns, greys and blues, stands
before him. As with all the other houses on the block, it's decaying just like
autumn leaves.
“You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Eve’s concerned;
Jeff doesn’t look well.
“What did I just say?” Even
as the words roll off his tongue, he feels guilt for his attitude.
“I was only asking.”
“I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I didn’t
mean to be snappy.”
“Don’t worry.” There’s
something wrong, she knows, but for now she’ll ignore it. “Which house is it?”
“This one.”
A young boy around the age
of nine, dressed in blue jeans, an over-sized black t-shirt, and a baseball cap
sits tapping the back of his shoes on the brick wall, watching as the white
folks step out onto the sidewalk. Jeff’s concerned about the rented car, and
for peace of mind decides to approach the child. The boy realizes with interest
that Jeff’s walking towards him, and slips off the wall.
“Hi. Would you like to earn
five dollars?”
“Maybe.” This boy’s earned
the right to be wary of strangers.
“Would you watch my car?”
“You gonna be long?”
“We shouldn’t be.” Jeff
senses mistrust. “We’ll be in that house.”
“Aimee’s.”
“You know her?”
“Yeah.” The boys guard
drops. “She’s a nice lady.”
“Okay. Any problems and
you’ll come and get me?”
“Sure.”
The small path leads up to
the house, and the old timber steps strain underfoot. Jeff’s already seen this
before in his dream, except he stood alone. Reaching out he pulls the door
knocker back, rapping three times; it’s an old door, but the thud is solid.
“Do you think she’s in?”
“Who knows? It would have
been easier if the phone line wasn’t still down.”
Jeff reaches out to knock again,
but hears movement behind the door. The bolt is drawn back and the rattle of a
chain precedes the door opening. A specter steps out, a specter with white
curly hair, a black shawl and gold rimmed spectacles, the look of Casey and
that all-knowing smile. Jeff’s speechless, unable to find any words. Realizing
something’s wrong, Eve takes the helm.
“Hi, we’re sorry to trouble
you. Mrs. Jones?”
“Yes.” Her voice holds the
lilt of New Orleans.
“Casey’s mom?”
“Casey. Oh I’m sorry, he’s
not here.”
“We understand that, Mrs.
Jones. It’s you we’d like to speak to.”
“Are you the cops?” Her
voice is guarded now, suspicious.
“No. We’re acting on behalf
of Casey. I’m his psychiatrist. We would like to ask you a few questions
regarding his gift.”
“I see. Can you help him?”
“I hope so.”
“Then you’d best come in,
but please, your identification first.”
“Of course.”
Once satisfied that Jeff and
Eve are who they claim to be, Mrs. Jones turns around and walks back into the
house, beckoning them to follow Eve turns to Jeff and whispers.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
Inside they are greeted with
a humble yet immaculately clean living room. The walls have a soothing floral
pattern, and the black cast iron fireplace proudly takes center stage. A
polished French dresser sits on the wood-stained floor, holding freshly cut
flowers beside photographs of people, and memories. A large wooden engraved
cross hangs on the wall, beside a framed photograph of Casey. He smiles in the
picture, watching over the proceedings, the ghost of a lost and loving son.
“Would you like a drink?”
“We had one just half an
hour ago.” Eve’s first impression is that Aimee is friendly. “But thank you for
offering.”
“Please sit down.”
They sit on the sofa. Jeff
looks around; the room is nothing like that of his dream. But he's sitting
opposite his premonition come to life.
“Mrs. Jones.” She looks
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