Read Online Otherworld by Jared C. Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jared C. Wilson
Tags: Suspense, Mystery, supernatural, serial killer, Murder, Spiritual Warfare, demons, Aliens, exorcism, supernatural thriller, UFOs, Other Dimensions
Ads: Link
for a closer look. One man with a long pole in his hand stood in the river itself, knee-deep in the murky water. He had a body snagged on a hook attached to the poleâs end and drew it to the shore. The body was that of a middle-aged man with a full beard. He was puffy, bloated, translucently white with blotches of violet from the water and the weather. When they rolled him over, his eyes were open and bulging, glassy and swollen. The flesh on his face and skin had separations, rifts from the gradual sloughing off.
They quickly went to work putting him inside a large black bag. They sealed it with a zipper and struggled to carry it to an ambulance waiting up on the shoulder of the road that ran along the riverbank. They slammed the doors shut and drove away.
A few yards from the menâs deep footprints, a boy sat cross-legged in the mud. No one had thought to shoo him away from the gruesome discovery. His eyes remained wide open, and he stared at the river. It flowed lazily, carrying limbs and leaves with it, and he half-expected to see another body come floating along. He had discovered the body while fishing. He looked out and saw what appeared to be a man floating on his back. He was just riding the current. His buddy Len went to notify the proper authorities, who arrived and left before Lenâs return.
A summer fishing expedition was cruelly interrupted. And now, alone, the boy was consumed with thoughts of the events that had transpired before him. He saw it. A blue-skinned, mouth-open, drifting for who-knows-how-long corpse. He had only wanted to catch a few bass with his friend, but he had come face-to-face with ⦠well, with death. And the image lodged in his mind, braced against his sense of adolescent well-being, forever haunting him. The trauma was real, heavy, big. It was all-caps: DEATH. That was the shadow memory trailing him. Something hit the ground beside him, splashing mud onto his pants. Then something struck his arm, and it hurt. It stung. Looking up, he saw Gary Newsome, the neighborhood bully, standing on the embankment, a brand-new BB rifle in his hand.
âGot you now, Michael Walsh!â Gary shrieked.
When someone calls you by your full name, theyâre either an authority, a stranger, or an idiot , Mike decided, but he didnât sense the urge to approach Gary and decide which category he fell into. He just assumed idiot and, leaving his fishing rod in the mud, ran as fast as he could toward home.
His feet sloshed in the wetness of his shoes. He was already blaming Gary for the blisters he knew heâd get. But he ran. He brought his feet down over and over, pounding the pavement, leaving muddy footprints and hoping Gary would slip on them. His little-kid mind remembered winning third place in the hundred-yard dash on Field Day at school, and he had the hysterical thought that if they had sent Gary Newsome after him with a BB gun, he may have won first. Gary, in hot pursuit, managed to get three or four more shots off. Two struck Mike in the back, and he yelped and arched his back and ran faster. Mike could feel the other BBs whiz by his ear. Gary had a good aim, thatâs for sure, but it was difficult to run and pump up the air rifle at the same time.
âIâll get you later,â Gary said, and he gave up the chase, likely heading to the woods to hunt squirrels or rabbits or any other small forest creatures unfortunate enough to encounter this adolescent madman.
Once safe inside the security of home, Mike checked his wounds. The BBs left red welts, but none had penetrated the skin. He sought the comfort of his bedroom and sprawled out on the floor to read a comic book. He read not a word, though, and registered none of the pictures. All he could see was the body of the man in the river.
The year was 1988.
Eight years later, Mike Walsh began his study of journalism in college. He joined the staff of the school newspaper, and his first assignment was to
They quickly went to work putting him inside a large black bag. They sealed it with a zipper and struggled to carry it to an ambulance waiting up on the shoulder of the road that ran along the riverbank. They slammed the doors shut and drove away.
A few yards from the menâs deep footprints, a boy sat cross-legged in the mud. No one had thought to shoo him away from the gruesome discovery. His eyes remained wide open, and he stared at the river. It flowed lazily, carrying limbs and leaves with it, and he half-expected to see another body come floating along. He had discovered the body while fishing. He looked out and saw what appeared to be a man floating on his back. He was just riding the current. His buddy Len went to notify the proper authorities, who arrived and left before Lenâs return.
A summer fishing expedition was cruelly interrupted. And now, alone, the boy was consumed with thoughts of the events that had transpired before him. He saw it. A blue-skinned, mouth-open, drifting for who-knows-how-long corpse. He had only wanted to catch a few bass with his friend, but he had come face-to-face with ⦠well, with death. And the image lodged in his mind, braced against his sense of adolescent well-being, forever haunting him. The trauma was real, heavy, big. It was all-caps: DEATH. That was the shadow memory trailing him. Something hit the ground beside him, splashing mud onto his pants. Then something struck his arm, and it hurt. It stung. Looking up, he saw Gary Newsome, the neighborhood bully, standing on the embankment, a brand-new BB rifle in his hand.
âGot you now, Michael Walsh!â Gary shrieked.
When someone calls you by your full name, theyâre either an authority, a stranger, or an idiot , Mike decided, but he didnât sense the urge to approach Gary and decide which category he fell into. He just assumed idiot and, leaving his fishing rod in the mud, ran as fast as he could toward home.
His feet sloshed in the wetness of his shoes. He was already blaming Gary for the blisters he knew heâd get. But he ran. He brought his feet down over and over, pounding the pavement, leaving muddy footprints and hoping Gary would slip on them. His little-kid mind remembered winning third place in the hundred-yard dash on Field Day at school, and he had the hysterical thought that if they had sent Gary Newsome after him with a BB gun, he may have won first. Gary, in hot pursuit, managed to get three or four more shots off. Two struck Mike in the back, and he yelped and arched his back and ran faster. Mike could feel the other BBs whiz by his ear. Gary had a good aim, thatâs for sure, but it was difficult to run and pump up the air rifle at the same time.
âIâll get you later,â Gary said, and he gave up the chase, likely heading to the woods to hunt squirrels or rabbits or any other small forest creatures unfortunate enough to encounter this adolescent madman.
Once safe inside the security of home, Mike checked his wounds. The BBs left red welts, but none had penetrated the skin. He sought the comfort of his bedroom and sprawled out on the floor to read a comic book. He read not a word, though, and registered none of the pictures. All he could see was the body of the man in the river.
The year was 1988.
Eight years later, Mike Walsh began his study of journalism in college. He joined the staff of the school newspaper, and his first assignment was to
Similar Books
