Read Online Take Me To Your Reader: An Otherworld Anthology by Amy A. Bartol, Tiffany King, Raine Thomas, Tammy Blackwell, Sarah M. Ross, Heather Hildenbrand, Amanda Havard, C.A. Kunz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amy A. Bartol, Tiffany King, Raine Thomas, Tammy Blackwell, Sarah M. Ross, Heather Hildenbrand, Amanda Havard, C.A. Kunz
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mustache. The caption reads, "With Ferdinand, 1910." My finger traces Mattie's young face, his three-piece suit, the chain of his watch fob that hangs from his vest pocket...the frame slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor.
Rising from the chair, I stumble toward the front door. A groan slips from me when Floyd 's dismembered body in the foyer blocks my path. I look away from him as I skirt his blood and flee from the house.
I walk numbly by the open passenger door of the Escalade. When I realize my wallet is lying on the seat, I go back and pick it up. Looking in the back seat, the bottle of white wine peeks out at me from the brown bag. I take that, too. Moving away from Mattie 's car, I unscrew the cap to the wine and take a deep sip. The headlights of May's Mercedes SUV blind me. I walk toward them.
When I get to May 's car, I open the door and climb in. The keys are in the ignition. Starting the engine, I turn the truck around and miss Milligan's charred body by inches as I pull away from the house.
I should probably tell Mattie where I 'm going, but he might try to talk me out of leaving, or stop me...and I have to go because, what do you say to someone who has lied to you about who he is? What do you say to that same person when he comes back from the dead and slaughters his enemies? Or, better yet, what do you say to an alien? Words fail me right now; I'll say the wrong thing.
The silence in the Mercedes is definitely unwelcome, so I flip on the stereo and put the accelerator to the floorboard. The car rattles as it hits rocks and branches with bone-jarring effects. I clutch the steering wheel tightly and concentrate on the obscure road. There is only one thing for which I 'm fairly certain: I can't tell Stan or Dr. Gobel about this. They'll lock me up and I'll never see daylight again.
Through force of will, I make it to a paved street and turn onto it, pushing the SUV as fast as it 'll go. Tears drip from my jaw onto my damp shirt; I wipe then away roughly with the back of my arm, but my eyes never leave the road. I'm having a hard time staying within the lines. I'm desperate to stop the car, but too afraid to ease my foot off the accelerator. I keep riding the snake of blacktop, following its serpentine twists and turns, looking for the tail of the beast so that I can get away.
Street lamps illuminate a town ahead, the lights from which blur and elongate as I drive past. My eyes grow heavy from fatigue. A car passing me, going the other direction, honks furiously as I drift into the opposite lane. I correct the wheel, dodging back onto the right side. Yellow snake eyes appear ahead; as they grow nearer, they morph into the neon sign of a motel. Unable to go further, I pull off the road and park in the lot near the office. It 's a motor lodge; all the beige-colored doors on both levels face the wrap-around parking lot.
My forehead rests against the steering wheel as I gather the courage to exit the security of the car. After a minute of deep breathing, I lift my head, opening the car door and braving the short walk to the office. To my relief, the glass doors aren 't automated. I pull one open; the scent of coffee stains the air. The lobby is like a fishbowl with picture windows on three sides. I pass a rack of brochures by a fake potted plant and stop at the front desk. The night clerk is alone watching highlights of the Tigers' game on the news. He glances at me through black-rimmed glasses. I manage to mumble my way through procuring a room.
After I pass back the signed credit card receipt to him, he gives me a plastic key within a sleeve, saying, "Room 110—through the doors—turn right—straight down."
" Thank you," I murmur.
I exit the way I came in. Turning right, I pay attention to the numbers on the doors, watching them ascend as I pass each one. I stop in front of a door with a floodlight mounted above it. Locating room 110, I fumble with the keycard. A car door opens and closes near
Rising from the chair, I stumble toward the front door. A groan slips from me when Floyd 's dismembered body in the foyer blocks my path. I look away from him as I skirt his blood and flee from the house.
I walk numbly by the open passenger door of the Escalade. When I realize my wallet is lying on the seat, I go back and pick it up. Looking in the back seat, the bottle of white wine peeks out at me from the brown bag. I take that, too. Moving away from Mattie 's car, I unscrew the cap to the wine and take a deep sip. The headlights of May's Mercedes SUV blind me. I walk toward them.
When I get to May 's car, I open the door and climb in. The keys are in the ignition. Starting the engine, I turn the truck around and miss Milligan's charred body by inches as I pull away from the house.
I should probably tell Mattie where I 'm going, but he might try to talk me out of leaving, or stop me...and I have to go because, what do you say to someone who has lied to you about who he is? What do you say to that same person when he comes back from the dead and slaughters his enemies? Or, better yet, what do you say to an alien? Words fail me right now; I'll say the wrong thing.
The silence in the Mercedes is definitely unwelcome, so I flip on the stereo and put the accelerator to the floorboard. The car rattles as it hits rocks and branches with bone-jarring effects. I clutch the steering wheel tightly and concentrate on the obscure road. There is only one thing for which I 'm fairly certain: I can't tell Stan or Dr. Gobel about this. They'll lock me up and I'll never see daylight again.
Through force of will, I make it to a paved street and turn onto it, pushing the SUV as fast as it 'll go. Tears drip from my jaw onto my damp shirt; I wipe then away roughly with the back of my arm, but my eyes never leave the road. I'm having a hard time staying within the lines. I'm desperate to stop the car, but too afraid to ease my foot off the accelerator. I keep riding the snake of blacktop, following its serpentine twists and turns, looking for the tail of the beast so that I can get away.
Street lamps illuminate a town ahead, the lights from which blur and elongate as I drive past. My eyes grow heavy from fatigue. A car passing me, going the other direction, honks furiously as I drift into the opposite lane. I correct the wheel, dodging back onto the right side. Yellow snake eyes appear ahead; as they grow nearer, they morph into the neon sign of a motel. Unable to go further, I pull off the road and park in the lot near the office. It 's a motor lodge; all the beige-colored doors on both levels face the wrap-around parking lot.
My forehead rests against the steering wheel as I gather the courage to exit the security of the car. After a minute of deep breathing, I lift my head, opening the car door and braving the short walk to the office. To my relief, the glass doors aren 't automated. I pull one open; the scent of coffee stains the air. The lobby is like a fishbowl with picture windows on three sides. I pass a rack of brochures by a fake potted plant and stop at the front desk. The night clerk is alone watching highlights of the Tigers' game on the news. He glances at me through black-rimmed glasses. I manage to mumble my way through procuring a room.
After I pass back the signed credit card receipt to him, he gives me a plastic key within a sleeve, saying, "Room 110—through the doors—turn right—straight down."
" Thank you," I murmur.
I exit the way I came in. Turning right, I pay attention to the numbers on the doors, watching them ascend as I pass each one. I stop in front of a door with a floodlight mounted above it. Locating room 110, I fumble with the keycard. A car door opens and closes near
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