Read Online The Seven Whistlers by Amber Benson Christopher Golden - Free Book Online
Authors: Amber Benson Christopher Golden
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transformer box sent out a shower of sparks.
The dogs swung their heads from side to side as though
searching for something, stopped to raise their snouts and sniff the air. One
of them lowered his head and started snuffling the pavement as though following
a scent. The other studied every building, every window, and the dark spaces
between them.
Hunting dogs, he thought. But what were they hunting?
The dog who’d been sniffing at the pavement lifted its head
and swung around. Mike backpedaled from the window, suddenly afraid to have the
dog see him. It seemed foolish — he was inside his house, after all
— but instinct forced him away from the glass.
Ten or fifteen seconds ticked by and he took a tentative
step forward. When he looked out at the night again, the dogs were gone.
A trickle came from his left nostril. Cursing his allergies,
Mike reached up to wipe it away, and it smeared on his hand. He caught the
coppery smell, then, and knew it wasn’t his allergies this time. His nose had
started to bleed again.
“Damn it,” he snapped, there in the dark.
There was nothing more to be done in here tonight. All he
could do was get the chair seat off of the table, and shut it down. His eyes
had adjusted enough that he could make out shapes and objects in the workshop,
but still he was careful making his way back to the table saw. He wiped the hem
of his ratty t-shirt across his nose, but the bleeding seemed to have been just
that one trickle. As he released the clamps holding the wooden seat to the
table, he moved his hands slowly, gingerly, wary of the darkness. He did it all
mostly by touch.
Mike slid his hands under the slab of oak.
With another pop, the power came on. He shut his eyes
against the sudden brightness of lights in the workshop and the whine of the
saw filled the room. The blade bit into flesh and bone. He cried out in pain
jumped back from the table.
With the room lit up, the blood on the saw and the wood and
the table looked too bright, too red, almost artificial. The little finger of
his right hand lay on the table, strangely pale. He lifted his hand and stared
at the half inch stump and the blood pulsing out of it. A strange numbness
filled him. Shock, he thought.
And then, Stupid.
Mike used his left hand to switch off the saw, furious at
himself for not having done so before. Safety first, what a joke. But it wasn’t
just stupidity. For the power to have come back on at precisely that moment,
that was just dreadful luck.
He took off his t-shirt and wrapped it tightly around his
hand, even as he walked over to the phone to call 911. Maybe he could drive
himself to the hospital, but he didn’t know how much the finger would bleed,
didn’t know if he’d stay conscious. And if they came quickly, maybe the
paramedics could save the finger. Could be the doctors would be able to
reattach it. They did stuff like that on tv all the time.
Alan teased him all the time about how one day he’d lose a
finger in here. The jokes weren’t going to be funny anymore.
Rose sat with one hand on the mouse, bathed in the glow of
her computer screen. She’d gone back and cleaned up the cabin as best she
could, putting the place in order for her parents’ return, but this afternoon
she’d returned to her apartment. Before dark. After last night, she didn’t feel
like sleeping at the cabin for a while.
The light was on in the hall, and another in the living
room. Voices drifted to her from the television. She’d been in the middle of
watching Good Will Hunting for about the twentieth time. It was old
enough now to be considered an old movie — old enough to be available for
free On Demand — but she loved the movie. One of her favorite moments in
any film ever was when Casey Affleck, Ben’s little brother, got up in the face
of the arrogant Harvard jerk in the bar and said “ my boy’s wicked smaht! ”
She loved that. And she loved the melancholy, working-class
wisdom that Affleck was able
The dogs swung their heads from side to side as though
searching for something, stopped to raise their snouts and sniff the air. One
of them lowered his head and started snuffling the pavement as though following
a scent. The other studied every building, every window, and the dark spaces
between them.
Hunting dogs, he thought. But what were they hunting?
The dog who’d been sniffing at the pavement lifted its head
and swung around. Mike backpedaled from the window, suddenly afraid to have the
dog see him. It seemed foolish — he was inside his house, after all
— but instinct forced him away from the glass.
Ten or fifteen seconds ticked by and he took a tentative
step forward. When he looked out at the night again, the dogs were gone.
A trickle came from his left nostril. Cursing his allergies,
Mike reached up to wipe it away, and it smeared on his hand. He caught the
coppery smell, then, and knew it wasn’t his allergies this time. His nose had
started to bleed again.
“Damn it,” he snapped, there in the dark.
There was nothing more to be done in here tonight. All he
could do was get the chair seat off of the table, and shut it down. His eyes
had adjusted enough that he could make out shapes and objects in the workshop,
but still he was careful making his way back to the table saw. He wiped the hem
of his ratty t-shirt across his nose, but the bleeding seemed to have been just
that one trickle. As he released the clamps holding the wooden seat to the
table, he moved his hands slowly, gingerly, wary of the darkness. He did it all
mostly by touch.
Mike slid his hands under the slab of oak.
With another pop, the power came on. He shut his eyes
against the sudden brightness of lights in the workshop and the whine of the
saw filled the room. The blade bit into flesh and bone. He cried out in pain
jumped back from the table.
With the room lit up, the blood on the saw and the wood and
the table looked too bright, too red, almost artificial. The little finger of
his right hand lay on the table, strangely pale. He lifted his hand and stared
at the half inch stump and the blood pulsing out of it. A strange numbness
filled him. Shock, he thought.
And then, Stupid.
Mike used his left hand to switch off the saw, furious at
himself for not having done so before. Safety first, what a joke. But it wasn’t
just stupidity. For the power to have come back on at precisely that moment,
that was just dreadful luck.
He took off his t-shirt and wrapped it tightly around his
hand, even as he walked over to the phone to call 911. Maybe he could drive
himself to the hospital, but he didn’t know how much the finger would bleed,
didn’t know if he’d stay conscious. And if they came quickly, maybe the
paramedics could save the finger. Could be the doctors would be able to
reattach it. They did stuff like that on tv all the time.
Alan teased him all the time about how one day he’d lose a
finger in here. The jokes weren’t going to be funny anymore.
Rose sat with one hand on the mouse, bathed in the glow of
her computer screen. She’d gone back and cleaned up the cabin as best she
could, putting the place in order for her parents’ return, but this afternoon
she’d returned to her apartment. Before dark. After last night, she didn’t feel
like sleeping at the cabin for a while.
The light was on in the hall, and another in the living
room. Voices drifted to her from the television. She’d been in the middle of
watching Good Will Hunting for about the twentieth time. It was old
enough now to be considered an old movie — old enough to be available for
free On Demand — but she loved the movie. One of her favorite moments in
any film ever was when Casey Affleck, Ben’s little brother, got up in the face
of the arrogant Harvard jerk in the bar and said “ my boy’s wicked smaht! ”
She loved that. And she loved the melancholy, working-class
wisdom that Affleck was able
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